


At the Heart of the Paradox

by NuMo



Series: Timey-wimey shenanigans in the Warehouse [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Warehouse 13
Genre: Crossover, F/F, Fix-It, Gen, Post-A New Hope, Timey-Wimey shenanigans, the Doctor doesn't like when humans play with time-turning artifacts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2018-12-10 14:26:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 42,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11693559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuMo/pseuds/NuMo
Summary: Whenever humans use time-turning artifacts, it spells trouble - for them and for the Doctor. And still they keep on doing it!Or, what if the Doctor stopped Artie from using the Astrolabe?Or, the Tale of Georgie and Ophie.





	1. Chapter 1 (1892)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm striving for weekly updates on this one. Summer vacation might yet thwart me, though. It's not that I need to write this stuff - it's all finished; I'm simply cruel. But you knew that before, didn't you.
> 
> Betaed by my lovely partner in crime [Faerirose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Faerirose). All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Any feedback welcome!

Helena fought with the wheel that would turn the rocket ship further skywards. “I can’t…” she panted, “Wooly, the wheel!” She knew her strength was not in her arms and hoped his would prove greater.

She abandoned the wheel and backed off a few steps, engaging the man that had been fighting her partner, hoping to keep him off Wolcott’s back long enough for him to try his strength at the wheel. Hearing him whoop with success, she shouted, “crank it as high as it will get,” without looking, using one leg to swipe her attacker off his feet. The other, bowler-hatted one came to engage her as well, and she used her momentum to kick him in the midriff. 

_Stay in motion, watch for openings, catch them off guard_ , Helena told herself, and circled to draw the attackers away from Wooly and the wheel. She cursed when she caught Crowley moving towards Wolcott in the corner of her eye. Flinging her full body weight into the move, she thrust the man still fighting her into the side of the ladder leading up to the rocket ship’s side, incapacitating him and catapulting him into his companion, who had been trying to get at her from her left. 

Helena tried to deal with the second attacker just as quickly, in order to engage Crowley and give Wolcott more time to aim the rocket ship even higher, but the bowler-hatted fellow was tougher than his mate had been. Risking half a glance upwards, Helena saw that the rocket ship’s nose was pointing a good bit further upwards than it had been. A combination of kicks later, another stolen glance showed her that, between kicks and shoves at Crowley’s grappling arms, Wooly was soldiering on winding it even further vertically. 

“Good man, Wolcott,” Helena shouted, driving her elbow into Bowler Hat’s face and following through with a kick to the left side of his back. She heard a peculiar, high-pitched, swelling and ebbing whining sound and thought it must be the Trumpet getting ready to go off – there had been mention of an odd sound right before it activated. Wooly and Crowley had obviously heard it, too, because the latter redoubled his attempts to get at the wheel to undo what Wolcott had managed. 

Then Helena heard two shouts, one triumphant, one fearful, and jerked her head around to see Wooly take a kick of Crowley’s to the chest; her eyes followed the curve of his fall immediately, drew a line from where he would land to how the rocket ship was angled to where the blast from the Trumpet would incinerate everything in its way, be it piles of sacking, or a faithful Warehouse agent’s body landed upon them. 

She cried out in fear for her partner’s life and jumped at Crowley, trying to get past him at Wolcott’s prone body. A shadow, approaching fast in the corner of her eye, turned out to be Bowler Hat’s fist. For a moment Helena lamented Wooly’s fate, her distraction, the inevitable; then things turned black. The dissonant blaring of the Trumpet followed her into unconsciousness. 

-_-_-

“Helena!” Wolcott wheezed as he saw her slump unconscious, and struggled to get up from the heap of packing material that he had fallen onto. Pain radiated from his solar plexus and he winced, trying to take in air. Hands grabbed his shoulders and hauled him upright. 

“Come on!” A man who seemed to have come out of nowhere grabbed Wolcott and pulled him upright, but when they started moving, it was away from Wolcott’s fallen partner, not towards her. 

“No,” Wolcott tried to shout, but his throat failed him, his lungs failed him, his legs failed him. He half fainted into his rescuer’s arms as he was pulled through a narrow, blue, wooden door he would have sworn had not been in this side of the observatory. The last thing he saw was the pile of burlap he had laid on only moments ago being disintegrated by Joshua’s Trumpet. Behind that, Helena Wells lay prone on the floor, the bowler-hatted miscreant and Vincent Crowley bent over her, oblivious to what was happening behind them. 

Then the door slammed close, a whirring, nauseating noise started up, and Wolcott redoubled his fight against the man who was, in truth, more propping him up than actually detaining him. “Let me out at once, sir,” he gasped hoarsely, coughed, and continued, “or you shall most certainly regret it.” Wolcott could not believe he was unable to free himself from this person – how could a man this thin even have this much strength?

“Sorry, can’t do that, can’t do that,” the man said, shaking his head determinedly. He kept his body angled so that Wolcott, who still needed his support, had no way of grasping the door’s handle. “For some reason, the TARDIS-”

“That,” Wolcott pointed towards the door, his voice growing stronger with every breath he took, “is Helena Wells out there. She is in danger; I cannot leave her alone among these cads. Sir, a gentleman such as yourself surely must understa-”

“Helena Wells?” The man exclaimed. “ _The_ Helena Wells? Unattributed author, uncredited inventor, famous Warehouse agent?” He ran the fingers of one hand through a quiff that was already sticking up quite disorderly, then tugged the lapels of his blue suit and shook out his shoulders. “ _That_ Helena Wells?”

“Yes!!” Wolcott shouted, then stopped short. “Hang on, how-”

“Ohhh, I wish we could go back, Agent, ah,” the stranger looked at Wolcott expectantly. 

“Wolcott, sir,” Wolcott replied automatically. “And you are?” The stranger was still not relinquishing the door; and what had he meant, ‘go back’?

“Oh, I’m the Doctor. You might have heard of me; I think I’m in your manual. Helena G. Wells,” the… Doctor grinned, apparently fondly remembering something. “Marvelous woman,” he went on, “ _marvelous_. Had to fight her tooth and nails once from tinkering with the TARDIS, oh, but she had her eyes on her, that one…” 

“I beg your pardon, sir, but it is _imperative_ that I go back out there and-,”

“Ohhhh, but you can’t, Wolcott,” the Doctor exclaimed. “The TARDIS has already taken off. Didn’t want to stick around. Weird, that.” He shrugged. “Come on, no long face here, I’ll take you back to the Warehouse. Well, near the Warehouse. Well, _close_ to the Warehouse, and you can tell her I said hello!”

“Sir, did you not see that she is fighting for her life out there?!” Wolcott almost begged. 

“What, Helena Wells? Nah, she’s got things in hand, hasn’t she?” the Doctor replied, striding towards a peculiar circular contraption in the middle of this room – an adjunct to the observatory? Wolcott wondered. “Anyway, the Ascent of Joshua’s Trumpet is well-documented; we used to laugh about it, she and I, and she’d always say ‘I always wondered where Wooly went, really; what _was_ he thinking,’ and I’d always say ‘I’ll keep an eye out for the Trumpet _and_ for him then,’ and-” the Doctor turned around from whatever he was looking at and stared at Wolcott, an excited grin spreading on his face. “And you _are_ Wooly, aren’t you?” He grabbed Wolcott’s right hand and shook it vigorously, spouting an unspeakably misplaced grin. “There we go then! When we get back, you can tell her that you can finally solve that puzzle.”

“What the blazes are you talking about, man?” Wolcott finally had enough. He tore his hand away from this, this… Doctor, and drew himself up. “Agent Wells is fighting for her life out there, and if I’m not very much mistaken, she might think me dead right now! She lost her daughter two years ago, poor child had burned to death in Paris; she had to suffer through a burial of an empty coffin, which she was only able to endure because Caturanga and I stood by her side, what with half of London jeering at her once again for having had a child out of wedlock.” He jabbed his finger at the door behind him. “If Helena thinks I’m dead, if she even survived Crowley coming after her, only to see I’m gone, it might undo her all over again! I will _not_ stand by and let that happen, are we clear? You will let me out of that door this instant, and you better hope to the high heavens that Agent Wells is alive and well, or, or, or it will go very hard on you, you hear?”

The Doctor’s face had slackened, and now screwed itself into a mien of disbelief. “Her daughter… dead? What?! No. Noooo- hang on. _Two_ years ago?” he whispered. “That can’t be a coincidence.” He whirled around to his contraption again, doing various things with various gewgaws very quickly, peered avidly onto a glass surface of some kind, then whirled around again to face Wolcott, his face now deadly grave. “Something happened two years ago that shouldn’t have happened,” he whispered. 

“I am telling you frankly, sir, that I do not _care_ what happened two years ago – something is happening _right now_ that shouldn’t, and you are _not_ helping! You, sir, are testing my patience!”

“Wooly – wooly, wooly Wolcott, this isn’t right!” The man turned back to his machine again, and punched a few buttons in rapid succession. “You’re right, and we’ll go back there and sort it out, don’t worry.”

“Finally!” Wolcott exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air. He turned around and started towards the door. “What’s this?” he shouted when he found it closed. “Open this at once, sir!”

“Can’t do that, it’s locked when the TARDIS is moving… Just give me a moment…” The Doctor frowned at something that, apparently, some sensor of his machine was telling him. The whirring noise around them changed suddenly, and the room gave an almighty lurch. 

“What do you mean, ‘moving’?! And what the hell was that?” Wolcott shouted, fighting to stay upright.

The Doctor was furiously punching buttons again, sparing only the briefest of moments to gesture to Wolcott to come to where he was standing at the contraption, and hang on to a specific handle. “She won’t… oh, but this is like ten minutes ago all over again!” the Doctor shouted and slammed both his hands squarely across his array of buttons. “Come ooon!” he yelled, as if imploring this machine to work in whatever function it was, apparently, refusing to work. “Don’t do this to me!”

“Sir, what on Earth-”

“The TARDIS won’t let me get back in there, and I’m not even trying to cross my own time stream – I just want to go back to right after we left; she should have no trouble at all, but here we are, not getting back in there, just like I couldn’t get to 1890 when I tried… Hang on, hang on…” 

Wolcott watched in helpless confusion as the man danced around his machinery, pulling a handle here, punching buttons there, twisting dials in yet another place. “Sir, would you kindly explain what you are up to?!” it finally exploded out of him. 

“What? What?! Oh! Ah! Yes.” The Doctor ceased his manic dash after one last, teeth-gnashing attempt, and came over to where Wolcott was still hanging on to the handle he had been told to hang on to. “I’m the Doctor,” he said again. “I take it you haven’t read that part of the manual yet, otherwise you’d know that this,” he gestured at the room around them, “is my TARDIS. A machine that travels anywhere, _anywhere_ in space and time, a machine that should have _no_ trouble,” he glared at some gadget on the contraption again, “going back to 1890, or going back to that observatory and letting me set things to rights.”

“A time machine?!” Wolcott shook himself. And if he had not just seen a rocket ship ready to fly to the heavens, he might not have believed this story about a time-traveling space ship, or space-traveling time ship, but had that not been the point that Helena had been making throughout their partnership?

“Oh, more than just a time machine, Wooly,” the Doctor said, running his thumbs along the armholes of his vest. “A TARDIS, with a Time Lord inside it. There should be nothing, _nothing_ we can’t do, and yet!” His finger speared the ceiling. “And yet we can’t go back – and that can only mean one thing.” He looked expectantly at Wolcott, who was completely at a loss for words. 

“We can only go forward?” the agent ventured, licking his lips nervously.

“Ha! No. I mean, maybe. I mean, _obviously_ we can go forward! But what I _mean_ , Wooly, is that there is a paradox here, a point where, somehow, time has come apart. Something happened two years ago, and something similar is happening again right now.” He patted Wolcott’s shoulder, “They might be the same thing, they might be different things. But they are definitely a _thing_! So!” He turned around and headed back around his machine, leaving Wolcott to gape after him. “What’s our next step?” His head appeared from behind the raised part in the center of his machine, looking at Wolcott with every sign of expectation.

Wolcott shook his head in equal measures of bewilderment and anger. How could anyone be so thick?! “Getting back to the observatory and help Helena! Sir,” he added as an afterthought. 

“Wooly. Wooly! No! We need to find Christina Wells!” the Doctor shouted, and plucked a long black strand of hair from Wolcott’s lapel.


	2. Chapter 2 (2012)

“If you use the astrolabe, you will create an evil of your own making. An evil that will live with you the rest of your days.” Brother Adrian sunk back to the ground, eyes empty. A whirring, whining noise started up, and Arthur Nielsen looked around for a second, trying to find the source, trying to make sure this wasn’t yet another security measure placed here at the Astrolabe’s hiding place. When nothing happened except the sound growing louder, he returned his attention to the two brass objects he held in his hands. Whatever this newest security measure was, if he finished assembling and using the Astrolabe, it wouldn’t matter anyhow.

He had no choice, did he. No. Choice. Even though the monk’s warning still echoed in his head, even though flashes of a nightmare, vision, _something,_ still crowded Artie’s thoughts, his fingers were sure as he assembled Astrolabe and Alidade. As they clicked together, the whining noise stopped abruptly. As they started to glow, a hand reached out and, slow and determined, took them from Artie’s hands. 

“I’m sorry – I can’t let you do that, I’m afraid,” a male, English-accented voice said, equally determined. “Just be glad the TARDIS got here in time.” The golden glow seemed to play around the man’s hand and arm for a moment, then vanished as he snapped the Alidade out of its grove.

Artie shook himself as the light returned to normal, and drew himself up to confront the man who had thwarted his desperate plan, his last hope of- “You don’t understand!” he almost sobbed, wringing his now-empty hands. “I’ve _got_ to turn back ti-”

“No,” said the man gently, and for the first time, Artie noted how sad the man’s brown eyes were. “Whatever happened, turning back time is not the solution. And this,” he hefted Astrolabe and Alidade, “should be put somewhere where no one can even be tempted.” He gave Artie a nod, and a small, sad smile. “I know just the place, in fact.”

Artie balked. “The Warehouse is the place for this,” he barked, “but it’s gone, isn’t it. Gone! Exploded, dead, destroyed, like Pete, like Mrs. Frederic, li-,”

“No. No! What?! No! The Warehouse? Noooo...” the man said, drawing out the vowel in disbelief. “No, no, no, my man, you must be misremembe-,”

“Tell that,” Artie shouted, stabbing a finger behind him, “to the dead agent lying right outside this door!!” He took a deep breath. “To the dead! Agent! You! Walked by! To get in here!”

The man visibly blanched. “Tell me everything,” he demanded. “And I mean _everything_.”

Artie shook his head stubbornly. “The Astrolabe turns back the last twenty-four hours. We already spent way too much time finding it! Every _minute_ I waste talking to you could be the _one_ minute too much, you moron!”

“Agent.” The man’s voice was still stoic, but laced with an urgency matching Artie’s own. “You _are_ a Warehouse agent, aren’t you?” Without even waiting for a nod, he continued, “I’m the Doctor. We haven’t met, but you might have read of me.” He pointed towards the same door that Artie had indicated moments ago, the door that hid – Artie refused to think about who it hid. “And of my TARDIS. Believe me when I say that we won’t be _wasting_ any time by talking; talking is good; talking is what I do best. And believe me when I say we won’t be using the Astrolabe, not now, not ever; you’re right that it belongs in the Warehouse, and _I’m_ right in saying that it should not be used again, ever, under any circumstances. And thirdly,” his eyes became sad again, sad and kind, “believe me when I say that the best chance you have, right now, is convincing _me_ why we should go back in time and undo what happened.”

-_-_-

Artie’s heart was heavy as he watched his two surviving agents trying to process what he and the Doctor had just told them. He knew that Myka Bering, especially, was hanging on by the skin of her teeth. Claudia Donovan, as he’d known she would, had shut down on her emotions days ago, had buried them, locked them away securely. Myka, though – Myka had to fight to keep her grief behind locked doors, and, apparently, her food in her stomach. Not that any of them had eaten much in the past few days; airline food mostly, since it was put right in front of them and frankly they didn’t have anything better to do while in the air. 

In the last half-hour, Artie had come to regret not having done more than skim the chapter dedicated to the Doctor and his TARDIS. He shook his head at himself. He should have known better than to think that anything, _anything_ , was too outlandish to be believed when it came to the Warehouse. A blue box might be larger on the inside than its outside – that was practically normal. That it was a time machine slash spaceship, slightly less so. That it was piloted by an alien, though, that had been too much. And then this Doctor person had outlined an outrageous idea, and Artie had insisted they retrieve the two agents that he knew were still alive – there was no way he would have left either of them behind, no matter how much the Doctor insisted that it wouldn’t matter if his plan (plan! That vague idea wasn’t a _plan!_ ) succeeded.

And now the four of them were sitting around a table in the TARDIS, in a room somewhere off the main control room, staring at each other with varying expressions of glum.

“So… so what’s the plan, now?” Myka said, swallowing harshly. She looked at the Doctor with a frown. “How… how do we save the Warehouse?”

“Not to mention Steve, Mrs. F, H.G. and Pete,” Claudia added darkly. 

“Hang on. H.G.?” The Doctor pounced on the name. “H.G. who?”

“H.G. Wells,” Artie said briefly. “Warehouse Agent.” From the corners of his eyes, he saw Myka clench her jaw; knew that he’d have to talk to her about the whole mess someday, knew that today certainly wouldn’t be that day. 

“What on…” the Doctor breathed. “Not _the_ H.G. Wells? Helena Wells, apprenticed at Warehouse 12?”

“Bronzed after the death of her daughter drove her mad with grief, debronzed by a rogue Warehouse agent, killed him, tried to kill all of humanity, was punished by the Regents, died to save Pete, Myka and me when the Warehouse exploded,” Artie rattled off, staring into the distance. His eyes snapped to the Doctor when he saw him shake his head wildly. 

“But that’s not-” The Doctor snapped his fingers suddenly. “But that’s it!” he exclaimed, jumping up. “It’s _all_ tangled up!” He slapped the table, making them all jump. “And we will put it right! Come on!”

“How?” said Claudia sourly, her expression of distaste at the Doctor’s enthusiasm mirrored on Myka’s face and, Artie knew, his own. 

“By untangling this wibbly-wobbly ball of timey-wimey mess!” the Doctor said, sounding a little more somber – Artie gave him credit for trying, at least. “I know what’s wrong now, from what you’ve told me. Here’s the thing – I know for a _fact_ that Christina Wells is alive and, well, _well_.” He looked into their stunned faces. “See? And we can start from there. If grief over the death of her daughter caused Agent Wells to be bronzed, which, as an aside, is an awful, awful way of dealing with people you want to get rid of, then we can change that by simply telling her, showing her, that her daughter is alive, can’t we?”

“But wouldn’t that change the pa-, um, futu-, I mean, um…” Myka began.

“Ah, but that’s the beauty of it,” the Doctor said, turning from her to Artie. “You wanted to change it in any case, right? So why not change it in a way that doesn’t have a mother suffer, what, a hundred years in suspended animation, over a death that never even happened?”

They sat around the table in silence for a moment. “Sounds good to me,” Claudia said, “on one condition.” She held up a finger. “Everybody lives. Steve, Mrs. F, H.G. Everybody.”

The Doctor met her eyes solemnly and nodded. “I promise, Claudia. Everybody lives.”


	3. Chapter 3 (in the TARDIS)

“Wooly and I found Christina through extracting and scanning for Helena Wells’ DNA,” the Doctor said as he and the three agents strode into the TARDIS console room. “I knew there was something fishy going on.” He wiggled his fingers in front of his face. “Someone had abducted that sweet child, erased her memories, and then set her up with caretakers in Bristol somewhere.” He bridled. “Erased her memories! An eight year old girl! Who does that?! So Wooly and I got her out of there, and when we wanted to return to London, to the Warehouse, the TARDIS again _refused_ ,” he banged the console a few times, “to cooperate, didn’t you?! Ah, but you had your timey-wimey reasons, old girl, I get that now.” 

He patted the console that he’d slapped, as if to apologize. “So I set Christina and Wooly up in a safe house, _not_ in Bristol, and told them I’ll be back with reinforcements. I start up the TARDIS in 1892 with that goal in mind, and she brings me to you, in 2012,” the Doctor nodded at Artie. “At first I thought it was only because of your using the Astrolabe, but now I’m certain that these things are connected somehow. I just have to figure out how, but don’t worry,” he patted Artie’s arm, then started punching what Myka thought must be commands into the TARDIS console, “I’m good at that.” 

Myka had read that particular part of the manual – of course she had. And of all the incredible things she’d read in the manual, that bit had _definitely_ taken the cake. Sure, okay, yes, artifacts were pretty incredible in and of themselves, but at least they were of this Earth, weren’t they? Whereas this… Doctor – well, he wasn’t. And concentrating on that at least didn’t hurt, as opposed to remembering how Hele- Myka stopped that thought, right there.

The Doctor was an _alien_. There were _aliens_ , at least this one, very probably more. More of his kind; because genius or not, no one could build a machine as impressive as the TARDIS by himself. Shoulders of giants, Isaac Newton had said, and the Doctor, no matter how long-lived, must have built the TARDIS, _if_ it had been him who built it, on similar foundations, the work and research and inventions of other people. 

More aliens of other kinds? Well, if _one_ kind of alien existed, chances were that others did, too, right? Pete would- and Myka stopped her train of thought yet again, fighting for breath. Thankfully, the Doctor was saying something again. 

“-coordinates for London, 1892, Warehouse 12 – well, close to it, anyway.”

“Close?” Claudia asked. “If this machine can go anywhere in space and time, why not pop right in?”

“Actually,” Myka said, relieved that she could jump on _this_ train of thought, “the TARDIS apparently won’t enter the Warehouse.”

“Huh,” Claudia huffed. “Why not? And how do you know about it?”

“It’s in the manual, Claud,” Myka sighed and smiled at the youngest agent to show her she hadn’t meant it as an accusation.

The Doctor stepped back from his console. “You see, Agent Donovan, the Warehouse is rigged so that it adapts to how much space the artifacts inside it take up, correct?” 

“Yeah, so?”

“Sooo,” the Doctor shot Claudia a pointed look, “no matter how she looks from the outside, the TARDIS is infinitely big on the inside, and the Warehouse senses that.”

She squinted at him, then her eyes grew wide. “Oh. Ohhh, okay, I get it. So the Warehouse would try and grow infinitely large to accommodate the TARDIS. And since that’s physically impossible…”

“… I don’t land inside the Warehouse,” the Doctor nodded. “No one wants Earth to explode, after all.”

“Appreciate it,” Claudia murmured. 

“Aaahh, don’t mention it,” the Doctor replied. “Actually, can you do me a favor and pull that lever over there?”

“Sure,” Claudia shrugged, “if you explain to me what it does?”

“Can that wait until we’re done saving people?” Myka interrupted, looking pleadingly at Claudia. 

“Fine,” the redhead huffed and pulled the lever jerkily. 

The whining noise started up again, much louder this time. Myka had heard it once before, shortly before a stranger, who she now knew as ‘the Doctor’ as if that helped matters, had pulled her from an Italian police car, flashing an empty piece of paper at the Italian police officers and babbling in English at them, obviously convinced that his feeble excuse for a ruse would work. It had been a shock when his feeble excuse for a ruse actually _had_ worked, and a larger shock when he had pulled Myka to a blue wooden box that had turned out to be much, much larger on the inside than out. And amidst finding and rescuing Claudia, and hearing from Artie what had happened in that cellar in Rome, Myka had hung on to _one_ fact – the Warehouse manual clearly stated that the TARDIS was, basically, a time machine. 

They could fix this. They _were_ fixing this. So she didn’t have to try and process Helena’s death any longer, didn’t have to even think about Pete’s apparent death at all, because they were fixing this so that it would have never happened. Right? Right. 

Myka frowned deeply when the TARDIS’ noise wound up yet another octave, started to scowl when the Doctor slapped his console again. 

“Come ooon,” he shouted at it, “not again?! At least get me close, alright? Close! As close as you can! Please?” He drew out his ‘please’ like a parent trying to wheedle something out of a stubborn child. There was a whistling noise, and the travel sound of the TARDIS changed again, as if it had latched on to something, Myka thought. Then there was a very definite-sounding ‘clunk’, and the whirring noise of the TARDIS traveling stopped abruptly. 

“Seems we’ve landed,” Claudia said with raised eyebrows.

There was a knock on the door.

“That is odd,” said the Doctor, his head tilted slightly backwards. He walked towards the door hesitantly, and opened it. 

“You must be the Doctor,” said a familiar voice. Myka sucked in a breath. “It’s high time you arrived. Something is very wrong.” Irene Frederic stepped into the TARDIS.


	4. Chapter 4 (1940)

“Mrs. F!” Claudia squeaked, running a few steps towards the Caretaker, then stopping in her tracks. “-rederic,” she added, rubbing her neck, her ears bright pink. 

“Do I know you?” Irene Frederic looked Claudia up and down. 

Myka strode to stand next to Claudia, trying to lend silent support. She felt that something was off – besides Irene Frederic not recognizing Claudia Donovan – and tilted her head, trying to pinpoint what it was. “Your hair,” she said suddenly. 

“I beg your pardon?” Now Mrs. Frederic was directing her eyebrow at Myka, but Myka was too excited by her theory to let that deter her. 

“Excuse me, Mrs. Frederic, but what year is it?” she asked, breath hitching in her throat. 

“1940,” Irene Frederic replied with a frown. Myka nodded slowly to herself. She _had_ thought that the Caretaker looked younger than Myka had ever seen her.

“And where are we?” the Doctor cut in, obviously pursuing the same theory that Myka had. 

“London, of course,” the imposing black woman now frowned at him. “Did you not mean to come here?” she asked. “I was under the impression that you had arrived due to the summons by Mister Caturanga and myself, Doctor.” Now she was full-on scowling, and it had just as much effect on the Doctor as her previous eyebrow had had on Myka. 

“1940,” the Doctor said, running his hand through his hair and breathing deeply. “Well!” He clapped his hands. “Could be worse, I suppose.” Then his head snapped round to look at Irene Frederic again. “Wait – summons? You _summoned_ me? Wh-”

“I am Irene Frederic, Caretaker of Warehouse 12,” Irene Frederic said, pulling herself up even straighter. “Mister Caturanga used to be the Warehouse’s head agent and is now its archivist. Nevertheless, he and I are authorized to-”

“Oh, I’m sure, I’m sure,” the Doctor murmured, ignoring a renewed glare. 

“Wait, what?!” Claudia finally spat out. “Warehouse 12? What the hell is going on?”

“Timey-wimey,” Myka muttered under her breath. “Mrs. Frederic,” she spoke up, “am I right in assuming that Warehouse 12 is still in London at this time?”

The Caretaker narrowed her eyes at her. “That is correct.”

“And have you always been its Caretaker?” the Doctor asked.

The eyebrow came up again, and Mrs. Frederic turned to the Doctor. “As a matter of fact, I have not.” She gave him a long, sharp look. “That is, in fact, one of the reasons Caturanga and I are convinced that something is wrong.”

The Doctor nodded. “Because usually, one Caretaker stays with their Warehouse until the Warehouse is relocated,” he explained for the agents’ benefit. “When did you become Caretaker for Warehouse 12, if I may ask?” 

“A bit less than thirty years ago,” Mrs. Frederic replied after a moment’s calculation. 

“Well, that at least fits,” Artie mumbled. 

Myka nodded. “Okay, so, what? Will we talk about how and why we’re here, openly?” she asked the Doctor, hoping that the answer would be ‘yes’.

“Oh, absolutely we are,” the Doctor said emphatically. “Mrs. Frederic here, as Caretaker of Warehouse 12, is no stranger to strange things.”

“Good, good,” said Artie. “Mrs. Frederic, my name is Arthur Nielsen. I’m an agent for Warehouse 13, and so are Agents Bering and Donovan,” he pointed to his two colleagues in turn. “And we are obviously from another timeline, or something, because _my_ Warehouse 13 relocated to the United States of America in 1914.”

Irene Frederic’s only reaction was an eyebrow, raised sharply enough that Myka thought it might fly off of her forehead entirely.

“So,” the Doctor said, walking back to his console, “basically we have _one_ timeline in which we _know_ something’s wrong,” he pointed to Mrs. Frederic, “and another in which you want to _repair_ something that’s gone wrong,” he pointed to Artie. Then he spread his hands as if to include everyone at once. “Now how can we bring the two together?” He turned to Mrs. Frederic again. “Let’s start here - what exactly do you mean when you say ‘something is wrong’?”

The Caretaker shifted her stance slightly. “Well, to begin with, the rules and restrictions that govern access to artifacts, Regent access specifically, have been loosened considerably, since before I became Caretaker. Secondly, especially in recent years, mention has been made increasingly frequently and increasingly loudly that the Warehouse should lend a hand in fighting Germany.”

“Whoa,” Claudia blurted out.

“Quite,” Mrs. Frederic nodded, shooting her a glance. “This stance is emphatically _not_ how Mr. Caturanga and I, as well as most of the agents and several Regents, interpret the policy of the Warehouse in general,” she said. “And yet the Regents advocating for secrecy and non-interference are being pressured with the intent of winning them over or shutting them out.” The corners of her mouth turned down sharply. “One died two months ago and, while it looked like an accident and certainly _could_ have been an accident, we cannot afford to ignore the chance that it wasn’t.” She looked gravely at the Doctor. “That is when I sent out the signal that was supposed to alarm you.”

“Yeah, you said,” the Doctor said distractedly. Then his eyes grew wide and he smacked his forehead. “Of course! That’s why we’re here!” He turned around briefly and patted the TARDIS console affectionately. “That’s why we could get as close as we have - because the TARDIS picked up your signal!” He faced Irene Frederic again and gave her a beaming smile, which faltered slowly in the face of her raised eyebrow. “Oh, you know,” he continued, wagging his hand. “Two months. Could be worse!”

“I had hoped for more… precision, on your part, Doctor,” the Caretaker replied in an icy voice. “The second concern that Mr. Caturanga and I share,” she went on, “is that we suspect that artifacts are being taken out of the Warehouse and sold.”

“What?!” Artie snapped. “How?”

“Well, as I said,” Irene Frederic replied, “access to artifacts has become easier. Add to that the fact that we still do not have a working inventory system beyond my esteemed colleague Caturanga’s brain, which, though comprehensive, is only human. This makes it far too easy to ‘mislay’ an artifact, which later turns up on the black market, over a private mantelpiece, or even in a battle against the Nazis.”

Artie swallowed hard. “Has this been going on since the beginning of Warehouse 12, or is there a point at which it started?” he asked slowly. 

“From what Caturanga has told me, there is indeed a starting point,” Mrs. Frederic replied. “You would have to ask him for further details, but he says that he saw a marked increase in artifact disappearances, and a marked decrease in security regulations, shortly before the turn of the century, and that was before my time.”

“1892, by any chance?” the Doctor asked, and Myka held her breath. Could this be a possible explanation? Had something happened in 1892 that had jumbled this timeline into the mess Mrs. Frederic was telling them about?

“As I said, you will have to ask my colleague when he arrives,” Mrs. Frederic reiterated. “Which should be presently, I expect. I sent a runner to notify him of your arrival, Doctor, asking him to proceed with the plan that we had come up with in the event of your arrival.”

“Plan?” the Doctor, Artie and Myka asked at the same time. 

There was another knock on the door.

“Ah,” Mrs. Frederic said with what Myka thought was almost relief, almost a smile. “This must be Caturanga.”

The man who bustled in when the Doctor opened the door did indeed introduce himself as Caturanga, smiling widely. Myka had not expected him to be, judging by his looks, in his eighties, or possibly older. He certainly seemed a bit too frail to be carrying his large bag, which looked for all the world like the one Artie was always lugging around. She had also not expected him to show up accompanied by another person, wrapped thickly in blankets. “I simply couldn’t leave her behind,” he said, his eyes shining with sincerity. “Helena Wells is my friend, and she never should have been bronzed in the first place.”


	5. Chapter 5

“You brought Helena Wells here?” the Doctor exclaimed, as the lights in the console room dimmed and a low rumble emanated from the walls. Myka would have thought it ominous, if she hadn’t been too concerned with the way her heart threatened to beat out of her chest. 

“Of course I brought her,” Caturanga insisted, sounding slightly affronted. “I shudder to think what would happen to her, bronzed or not, in the current climate within the Warehouse. She would _not_ be safe there, and I do not leave friends behind in unsafe places, Doctor.” He eyed the man in front of him warily, watching closely as the Doctor ran a slender, whistling, pen-like device across the swaddled person standing beside him. “You _are_ the Doctor, I presume.”

“Yeah,” the Doctor sighed, and turned around to his console. When he connected the device to it, the rumbling sound muted slightly, as if it was being mollified by the Doctor’s actions. “Yes, I’m the Doctor. And the TARDIS is not happy, not happy at all, with Helena Wells’ presence.”

“Why ever would that be?” 

Myka almost sobbed as she heard the familiar voice, the familiar accent. This wasn’t _her_ H.G. Wells, not _her_ Helena. It couldn’t be; it wasn’t. 

“Because, Agent Wells,” the Doctor addressed the bundle of blankets over his shoulder, “for some reason you are at the heart of this paradox that we find ourselves in.”

“A paradox?” Artie’s head snapped up and his eyes narrowed. “Agent Caturanga,” he addressed the old man directly, only to be interrupted. 

“Oh, it’s no longer Agent, I’m afraid,” the newcomer chuckled. “That’s long past. I consider myself the living inventory of our Warehouse now, its archivist. Not that that’s an official title,” he added modestly. “And you are?”

“Agent Nielsen, Warehouse 13, long story,” Artie replied. “So, Mr. Caturanga, Mrs. Frederic told us that you thought you could pinpoint when the changes in the Warehouse started?” 

“I can indeed, Agent Nielsen,” the old man replied genially. “It was around the end of 1892, a few months after my dear friend,” he indicated Helena, and Myka wanted nothing more than to rush forward and find a chair to offer to this recently unbronzed version of Helena G. Wells, “was bronzed, amidst many protests by the way.” He sighed. “Frankly, I hold the Head of the Regents responsible; not for Agent Wells’ bronzing, in fact Havisham vetoed that decision, but he was overruled. But I do think he is behind the changes Irene obviously mentioned to you. He himself changed quite significantly around that time, becoming much more vocal about how the Warehouse and its artifacts should be ‘out in the world’, as he put it.” 

Myka saw Artie’s hands twitch, and thought she knew why. She had heard that expression before, too. “His views gained a lot of traction among the Regents and some of the Agents over the years,” Caturanga went on, “much to the dismay of Irene and I. We originally suspected that he was under the influence of an artifact, but all our attempts at having this possibility investigated were shot down by the Regent Council. Frankly, had it been an artifact, we think it would have abated over time, and it has not done so yet.” He looked around the room. “Excuse me, Doctor, but do you have any facilities on board your TARDIS to help my friend recuperate? I am concerned for her-,”

“Oh, nonsense,” Helena scoffed under her blankets, and Myka didn’t have to see her face to know how disdainful and fascinated her expression would be. Myka’s heart had to be getting bruises; it was beating against her ribcage so hard. “I would certainly not decline a chair, but I am fine otherwise, Caturanga, if only you would _finally_ fill me in as promised.”

“Chair!” the Doctor said, snapping his hands, but Myka was ahead of him, already rushing towards the room they’d sat in earlier and retrieving one of the chairs from around its table.

“Hel-” She stopped and cleared her throat as she approached the shrouded figure, “Um, here you go.” She set the chair down behind Helena, and gestured for Caturanga, who hadn’t left his friend’s side, to help her sit down. 

“Thank you,” she heard Helena say, and firmly determined that the other woman was addressing Caturanga. “Now,” Helena went on, “what’s this about a paradox? And did you say Warehouse 13?”

“I have a theory,” Artie said, not quite looking at where she was seated. “Agent Wells, would you please tell me - did you successfully build a time machine before you were bronzed?”

There were several gasps around the room, one of which had definitely come out from under heavy blankets, Myka knew. 

“How on-”

“Please just answer, Agent,” Artie said, sounding patient and carefully neutral. “I’m quite sure you won’t get into trouble over this in present company.”

There was a long pause – Myka thought that Helena was probably considering just who ‘present company’ might consist of. Could she even see anything through the blankets she was wrapped in? “No,” the shrouded figure finally answered. “I had researched, made plans, but certain events,” her voice turned acerbic, “precluded any implementation.”

Artie let out a long breath, running his hands across his face. Then he nodded. “I guess that would explain it,” he said. “Well, here goes.” He turned to address all of them. “There was this agent who worked with me decades ago. An agent who, over time, came to the conviction that artifacts should be ‘out in the world’ - his exact words.” Myka closed her eyes; they _had_ both been thinking the same thing. “In my timeline,” Artie went on, “two years ago, this agent unbronzed H.G. Wells. We think his intent was to use her to gain access to the Minoan Trident, which the H.G. Wells of _my_ timeline,” he nodded towards the shrouded figure to emphasize that he was talking about a different person, “had been researching before she was bronzed. _That_ H.G. Wells had also successfully built a time machine, in order to try and save her daughter from being murdered in 1890.” He looked uncertain for a moment, then muttered, “my condolences, by the way, if this happened to you as well.” 

Myka was barely done raising her eyebrows (and, from a look shared between the two of them, Claudia felt similarly shocked), when Artie continued, “so, what if - what if MacPherson unbronzed H.G. Wells with his eyes not on the Trident, but on her time machine? What if he worked on it, enhanced it, to allow him to stay longer than twenty-two hours, possibly infinitely? What if he traveled to, say, 1890, taking over the body of the Head of the Regents, lying low, letting H.G. build her time machine to keep the loop intact, but then something happened that caused _you_ ,” he gestured towards the woman in the chair again, “to be bronzed before you completed your time machine, breaking the loop-”

“And causing all the trouble the TARDIS and I have been running into!” the Doctor added excitedly. “And it so happens that I know _exactly_ what happened - Agent Wells, do you remember the Ascent of Joshua’s Trumpet?” Myka’s head snapped up. _She_ remembered Joshua’s Trumpet. She exchanged another glance with Claudia, and Artie as well. 

Helena visibly slumped. “Yes,” she whispered, barely audible through her blankets. “Of course I remember.”

“It was the reason for her being bronzed, Doctor,” Caturanga supplied when Helena didn’t continue. “The agent who retrieved the Trumpet insinuated that it had been Helena who’d stolen it, in an attempt to power her rocket ship. Since another agent had died in the retrieval, the Regents decreed that Helena should be bronzed for her transgressions.”

“But-” Claudia began. 

Artie nodded. “That’d be it,” he agreed. “In our timeline, the Trumpet was stolen by Vincent Crowley-” Myka saw Helena sit up very straight upon hearing the name, “and H.G. Wells and William Wolcott attempted to retrieve it. Unsuccessfully, unfortunately, but that's another story.”

“It was Crowley who testified before the Regents that Agent Wells had stolen the Trumpet,” Mrs. Frederic said stonily. 

“The plot, as they say, thickens,” Caturanga added with a thunderous expression. When he turned to the figure sitting on a chair next to him, his face softened into fond concern. “Helena - dear friend,” he said, “I know this is a lot to ask after your ordeal. By all means decline if you find this all too taxing; no one would think the worse of you if you did.”

“What is it?” Helena snapped. 

“Could you… would you tell us what happened that day?”

Helena took a breath deep enough that her shoulders visibly moved, but before she could answer, the Doctor stopped gnawing his thumb and spoke up. “I think I can,” he said quietly. “And I think we all should sit down for what’s coming.” He led the way to the little conference room.

There was stunned silence around the table when the Doctor had finished retelling how he had saved Wolcott, how they had argued in the TARDIS, and how they had been unable to return to the observatory. 

“And that brings me to the most important bit of news,” the Doctor said. He got up and walked to a control panel set next to the door, and lowered the room’s lights to a bare minimum before approaching the still-shrouded Helena Wells. He knelt down next to her chair, and put a hand on her knee. “Please excuse the familiarity, Agent Wells,” he said gravely, “but what I’m about to tell you is probably going to shock you. A good shock! A really, really positive one, but it is going to be a shock, and I want to make certain you know there’s friends around. I think it would help tremendously if you could see my face while I told you this,” he added. “I’ve lowered the lights, in case you couldn’t tell, and I think your eyes will have readjusted enough to not be hurt if you remove enough of your coverings that you can see me.” He exchanged a look with Caturanga, who had leaned forwards in his own chair right next to Helena’s. “Will you try?” the Doctor asked.

Helena sat still for a long while. Myka would have sworn she saw a shudder run through the blanket-bundled body before a hand came up from under the coverings, slowly and hesitantly working on the swaths of cloth that shrouded Helena’s head. Helena removed layer upon layer, until only a thin black cloth remained, which she kept on. It looked like a mourning veil, Myka thought. It looked like something she might have gone into the bronzer with. Myka clenched her teeth at the sight of the familiar face and its deeply troubled expression. 

The Doctor removed his hand from Helena’s knee and grasped her hand in it. “Agent Wells, your daughter, your Christina, is alive and well,” he said, and his words reverberated in the shocked silence around the table.


	6. Chapter 6

Helena swayed, and both Caturanga and Myka half rose as if to steady her, but the Doctor beat them to it, putting his free hand on Helena’s arm. “My-” Helena’s voice rasped, and she swallowed harshly. “My Christina is…” Myka saw that Helena’s knuckles were white; she was gripping the Doctor’s hand so tightly. 

“She lives, and is safe, and in the excellent care of William Wolcott. We will go to see her next thing, but,” the Doctor hesitated for a moment, obviously trying to gauge how the woman he was looking at was taking his news. 

She was taking it badly. Myka could see shudders and tremors running through the slender figure even from where she sat, right across the table. She kept telling herself that this wasn’t _her_ Helena, that running over and hugging the stricken woman and holding her tight would not be welcomed, at all, whatsoever. But still, this woman had just – probably no more than half an hour ago – been unbronzed, after spending forty years in suspended animation, with nothing to do but accuse herself of being unable to save her daughter and, from what the Doctor had recounted, her partner as well. 

And even if a person didn’t have all those things to blame herself for – being bronzed, being in bronze, left serious traces, Myka knew. Helena, _her_ Helena, had told Myka some of the physical aspects she had gone through shortly after being unbronzed by MacPherson two years ago. Myka herself had witnessed more of them months, even years after the event. MacPherson hadn’t thought to provide access to a physician, apparently hadn’t even known about these symptoms. Myka wondered if the Regents, _any_ Regents, knew, if Mrs. Frederic knew, if the Doctor knew. Myka wondered if anyone would be there for _this_ Helena, not just for psychological support, but for plain and simple medical care.

She cleared her throat and looked around the table at Artie, Claudia, and Mrs. Frederic. “Maybe this is the moment when we, um, take ourselves elsewhere?” she suggested, forcing the words out. 

Claudia jumped up immediately. “Yup,” she nodded vehemently, and grabbed Artie’s arm to pull him upright as well. 

Mrs. Frederic rose from her chair, too, and addressed the Doctor as they all filed out. “Please fill us in on what will be the next parts of the plan as soon as you can, Doctor.”

-_-_-

It was a good half an hour later, Myka reckoned, when the door to the conference room opened and the Doctor stepped out by himself. She’d half-heartedly tried to stop Claudia from half-heartedly poking around the TARDIS’ console a couple of times, but they both knew that both the poking and the admonishing had been mostly for show, for something to do, than anything else. Artie had been in a low-voiced conversation with Irene Frederic, probably discussing differences between her timeline and theirs; Myka couldn’t find it within herself to care.

The Doctor sighed before he addressed them. “Well,” he said and swung his arms a couple of times, “that went about as well as expected. They’re off to find some more clothes for Miss Wells now, which you,” he pointed at Claudia, Myka and Artie, “are welcome to do as well, by the way. The TARDIS has quite the collection.” He stared into the distance for a moment, then grimaced. “Honestly, Mrs. Frederic, I wish the Warehouse would discontinue the practice of bronzing. It’d be more humane to simply kill people instead, and that’s really saying something.” 

“Some might argue that the people the Regents decide to bronze do not deserve humane treatment, Doctor.” The Caretaker’s voice was level as always, never betraying her own thoughts on the matter. 

The Doctor took a deep breath as if to argue back, then turned away, frowning furiously. He walked around his console once, then clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “So!” he exclaimed, sounding eager again, and started pushing buttons. “Off to Herefordshire, now,” he announced, “where we’ll be spending the night with Christina Wells and family. And then we’ll spend the day plotting and planning and preparing for a hostile takeover of Warehouse 12! Allons-y!” He threw the lever that activated the TARDIS engines – or so Myka assumed, for the whining noise started up again when he did – and looked at his audience with a beaming smile. 

Claudia gulped. “Dude,” she whispered. 

“How… how will this give us back Warehouse 13, though?” Myka asked, arms wrapped around herself. _Eyes on the prize_ , she told herself. _This_ Helena would be reunited with her daughter, would be happy at last, would never feel the pain and grief and rage that would lead to the Trident and Yellowstone and a gun on Myka’s forehead. Nevertheless... “This is a massive divergence from the past, right?” she asked, feeling more insecure by the moment, “I mean, _our_ past. So, so how is this going to affect our present? I thought we’d only go back a little bit, enough to save Steve and... and the others. Not seventy years!”

“That’s right,” Artie nodded vehemently, “Myka’s right. The consequences of a change of this magnitude are unthinkable! The only thing we wanted to do was roll back 24 hou-”

“Speak for yourself, old man,” Claudia muttered. “24 hours would’ve never brought back Jinksy, and you know it.”

“I know!” Artie exploded. “I know, alright?! I’m trying!”

“Doctor,” Irene Frederic said slowly, “while I appreciate you helping us at Warehouse 12, I do agree with the concerns of these agents – what will happen to them and Warehouse 13? We already have divergences now,” she added, “and I find it difficult to think how they will be reconciled. Seventy years down the road, though,” she huffed a little, “I hope _you_ have an inkling, Doctor, because I do not.” 

“Plotting and planning, Mrs. F,” the Doctor said, “are on the schedule for tomorrow.” He grinned boyishly, throwing his dimples full force at the formidable Caretaker. She didn’t seem impressed, Myka thought. “I do have ideas, oh yes. Trust me. I’m a Time Lord, after all.” 

There was something in his eyes that made Myka think of another pair of brown eyes she’d seen, of Yellowstone, and Tridents, and guns on foreheads. She shuddered and wrapped her arms more tightly around herself.

“Ah! Here we are,” the Doctor announced genially when the travel noise stopped. He strode towards the door and threw it open, revealing an orchard – apples, Myka thought, in fall. Boughs heavy with fruit, moonlight tinting them purple and blue and teal and silver. 

A man was striding towards them, almost running through the straight rows of apple trees. “Doctor!” he called out when he was close enough to be heard without shouting too loudly. “Doctor, is that you?”

“Wooly!” the Doctor exclaimed, beaming happily and wrapping the man in a hearty hug, complete with back-slapping. “Good to see you!” 

“Same to you, although I have to admit I’d thought you’d come a bit sooner,” the man laughed and shook his head. “You did say you ‘might be a bit,’ but,” he stepped away and held the Doctor at arm’s length, shaking his head, “ _forty_ years!”

“Well...” the Doctor drawled, weighing his head, “I did try. And I’ll tell you why I couldn’t come sooner, Wooly, but first – can we impose on your hospitality tonight? I’ve brought quite a few people-” 

“You did say you’d bring reinforcements,” the man called Wooly, who, Myka assumed, was William Wolcott, former agent of Warehouse 12, nodded briskly. “Of course, of course. Christina is away selling our harvest, but I expect her back tomorrow, Friday at the latest. George and Junior are accompanying her, of course, so the house is mostly empty. We’ll fit you in, never worry.” He stepped back a little, craning his neck to look past the Doctor inside the TARDIS. “Hello there,” he called out when he saw Myka, “and welcome to Little Howle Nursery and Orchards. My name is Will-” 

A choking sob from behind made Myka half-turn around, freeing the way for a slender figure rushing past her into Wolcott’s arms.

Myka caught a few words that this Helena exchanged with the partner she had believed dead for forty years, caught soft exclamations about receding hairlines, countered by assurances that Helena didn’t look a day older, resulting in more sobs. Myka stepped back further into the TARDIS console room to give the two Warehouse 12 agents the privacy their situation demanded, and caught Claudia’s eyes. For a moment, raw, unguarded emotions passed between the two women. Then Claudia looked away and cleared her throat. 

“I’m sorry,” she muttered.

“Yeah, me too,” Myka replied in a scratchy voice. “Let’s,” she cleared her throat, “let’s find clothes for us, like the Doctor said, okay? Artie?” The older agent merely grunted.

“Lead on, MacBering,” Claudia agreed.


	7. Chapter 7

It had taken all of Myka Bering’s willpower to walk up to the door of the room Helena Wells had been assigned. It stood slightly ajar, allowing her to see this Helena sitting at a desk, clad in soft, flowing, gray garments, writing in what looked like a journal. Myka couldn’t help feel like an intruder, couldn’t help thinking she shouldn’t be here. But she also couldn’t fight the urge to come here and simply look at Helena, as if an impromptu dinner around the kitchen table hadn’t shown her that looking at this Helena was a bad idea altogether. This Helena, who was not _her_ Helena. But her Helena was dead, and yes, so were Steve and – Myka’s breath hitched – and Pete. But they didn’t have alternate versions of themselves sitting at a desk in an English country home, did they?

“Why don’t you come in, Agent Bering?” Even her voice was slightly different, or so Myka thought. Less… broken, maybe? Oh, but that was just too trite, wasn’t it? Also, definitely not flirting. Which was a good thing, because Myka was teetering on the edge of an abyss, and that would certainly push her to some uncertain doom. Whatever else it was, though, its hypnotic effect on Myka was undiminished.

Myka stepped into the small bedroom. She opened her mouth to produce some explanation for why she was here, but…

Helena was looking at her. 

Helena. 

Helena and her stupid face that Myka had last seen breaking into a stupid smile, breathing a stupid thank you, smelling stupid apples. 

Helena. 

And suddenly Myka knew it had been a very bad idea to come here, knew she should make some excuse or other and get the hell out of here but…

Helena was still looking at her. 

And suddenly Myka’s eyes were filling and her stomach was clenching and her hands _and_ her jaw, and suddenly the impulse to _not_ cry in front of _this_ Helena Wells, whose daughter was asleep two towns north, whose Warehouse colleagues were probably still not asleep but making plans downstairs, who hadn’t _asked_ to be put in bronze, suddenly the impulse to _not_ cry in front of _this_ Helena Wells gave Myka the strength to blink and look away. 

“Um, hello,” she managed. 

“I couldn’t help but hear someone come up the stairs, I’m afraid,” this Helena said. “And then couldn’t help but hear your steps stop in front of my door.” This Helena’s eyes were friendly, but reserved, which Myka certainly understood; this Helena didn’t know her except as “Myka Bering, Warehouse agent from a different timeline/future”. And yet the distance in that expression was dwarfed by the distance that Myka suddenly felt, between this Helena and her, between _this_ Helena and _her_ Helena. “May I invite you to take a seat?” this Helena offered, pointing apologetically to the bed. “I’m afraid my room doesn’t offer very many-,”

“No! Um, no, thanks. I… I’d rather…” Myka hesitated. “I won’t be staying long, thank you.”

This Helena’s eyebrows rose slightly, and she smiled, and nodded. Her eyes, while still friendly, and still distant, were also, still, _caring_ in a way that was very much Helena, and very much not okay. She shouldn’t be caring, Myka thought. She should be reeling, from having spent over forty years in bronze, her only companions her guilt and grief for Christina’s and Wolcott’s deaths, and from then finding out, today, that both of them were still alive. _Reeling._ Not _caring_. But then maybe this was this Helena’s way of coping? Or of simply being friendly; maybe this Helena just hadn’t- “Can I… help you in any way, Agent Bering?” the Helena in question asked, head tilted.

Agent Bering. Myka took a deep breath. She was Agent Bering, and this was Agent Wells, and if Myka clung to that fiercely enough, she might get out of here unharmed. “Um… I wondered if… if you are okay,” she said. “I mean… um… I mean, I know you have your friends around,” she pointed vaguely downwards, “but…” she broke off. She hadn’t really thought of a reason to go up here that was about _this_ Helena. Really her reason to go up here had been just to see Helena again – any Helena. But she couldn’t very well tell _this_ Helena that, could she. _Think, Bering._ “It’s gotta be hard, I thought, to wake up from the bronze and…” again, she waved vaguely, “you know. And I thought you might…” again, she faltered. “And I realize I’m being very presumptuous,” she said suddenly, and turned to go. “I’ll… ah… I’ll just go and…”

“Myka.” 

Myka stopped dead, not even halfway turned to the door. But this wasn’t _her_ Helena imploring her not to go. This was only her name, on _this_ Helena’s lips, going straight for her gut.

“It _is_ Myka, isn’t it?” this Helena said. “Might I call you that? You seem… distraught, and I would rather sound friendly than formal.”

 _Of course._ “Of course,” Myka replied weakly, voice cracking. 

“I don’t mean to pry,” this Helena said, and part of Myka doubted that very much indeed, if only out of habit. “I do have the feeling that you know me.”

“Not you,” Myka said immediately, too quickly to be polite. “Sorry,” she amended, turning around to face this Helena. “It’s just…”

“It’s difficult to keep track of different timelines, is it not,” Helena said with a small smile. 

Myka shook her head. Not difficult at all. Not when you looked at eyes that didn’t look back as if they knew you inside and out. Not when you looked at a face that wasn’t, by turns, outrageously flirtatious, dissolving in too many emotions, or taut to breaking point. “You and her are…” she paused, looking for the right word, “light years apart.” 

One lone eyebrow came up. “How so, may I ask?”

She almost destroyed the world. She went insane with grief. She loved me, and I failed her. She invented a time machine. She lost her daughter. I failed her. “She is…” Myka blinked rapidly, took a deep breath through her nose, tried to focus on the polite friendliness in this Helena’s eyes, and realized it had been replaced by an intense curiosity that was much, _much_ too familiar. And then that, in turn, was replaced by sudden, shocked revelation, and a gentleness that was even harder to bear for the distance it held again. 

“She is dead, is she not?” Helena asked softly. “You knew a version of me who was dear to you. And she is dead.”

 _Worst. Idea. Of my life._ Myka could feel the bottom dropping out of her world. It was true, wasn’t it. Artie hadn’t used Magellan’s Astrolabe; the Doctor had kept him from using it, so Helena, _her_ Helena, was still… still dead. If the Doctor returned them to where they had been, her Helena… Myka felt faint, dizzy. She closed her eyes, willing them not to shed the tears that were brimming. 

“I do apologize,” Helena said, her voice still soft, solicitous, friendly. And distant. “I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s okay,” Myka said before she could stop herself. This Helena had no idea how much Myka had come to hate her Helena’s apologies, had no idea how often Myka had just brushed them away because she’d much rather talk with a Helena _not_ constantly sorry, with a Helena not constantly having _reason_ to apologize. Myka inhaled sharply and dashed her hand across her cheeks, left, right, impatient. “I… I think I should-” She made the mistake of opening her eyes. 

They were greedy, Myka’s eyes. They told her that here, _here_ , at arm’s reach, was sitting Helena G. Wells, Warehouse agent. So what did it matter that _her_ Helena had a small scar on her chin that this Helena was missing. What did it matter that _her_ Helena hadn’t looked at Myka with this much of polite, friendly concern in ages, and probably never. What did it matter that _this_ Helena’s eyes didn’t hold the heartbreak, the incredulity, the tiny, tentative sliver of hope, that Myka had come to recognize as the way Helena G. Wells looked at the world – or maybe only at Myka Bering. Myka’s eyes tried to convince her, very hard, that right now none of this mattered, because here was sitting Helena G. Wells, and they couldn’t look away. “I… I should be going,” she told her eyes, and they didn’t heed her at all. 

“Myka-” this Helena rose and took a step closer, and that, at least, at last, gave Myka strength enough to take a step back in turn, keeping the distance between them the same as before. “I’m sorry,” this Helena said and dropped the arm that she had reached out to Myka. 

“Me too,” Myka whispered. Her own arms had, she found, sneaked around her own waist, and she didn’t know if they were trying to console her the way this Helena would have if she’d let her, or trying to keep Myka from flying apart. Possibly both. The thought of this treachery by her own body gave Myka the last bit of strength she needed to tear her eyes away from this Helena’s face and fix them on the edge of the rug instead. This Helena was standing on it, Myka was not, that’s how close she was to the door behind her. A good fact. A helpful fact. 

“She saved m- um, us,” Myka told the rug. “Someone had activated the Remati Shackle’s force field, and then set off a bomb inside the Warehouse.” She flicked her eyes to where she vaguely thought London could be, and then returned them firmly to the rug. “Not like these bombs. Much, much worse. We were trapped inside with it, Artie, Pe-,” Myka swallowed, took a deep breath, let it out slowly, “Pete, she and me. We didn’t know what to do, we tried everything we could, and she came up with this idea while Artie and Pete and I…” Another breath, in, out. “She worked on it while we worked on our ideas. She didn’t tell us. We only noticed when…” In, out. “She’d rigged part of the force field to surround us. And it did, but only Pete, Artie and me. She said it had to be activated…” Myka’s voice surrendered, died.

“From the outside,” this Helena finished, her voice slow, understanding. “I think I know what she did, yes.”

Rage flared up in Myka, and just as suddenly died again, leaving a wave of nausea. Of course _this_ Helena would know what _that_ Helena would have done, even if Myka had had no clue until that fucking force field had come up. She was the same person, or close enough, and Myka wasn’t. 

“So your Warehouse truly…” Myka didn’t know what made this Helena bring that up, at a moment like this, but then this was _this_ Helena. So British. Stiff upper lip. Giving Myka a way to get this conversation back onto a professional track. 

She blinked. “Yeah. It’s... it’s gone.”

This Helena let out a long breath. From the corner of her eyes, Myka saw that she was mirroring Myka’s pose now, arms hugging her own waist at the thought that the Warehouse, any Warehouse, had been destroyed. It hit Myka, suddenly, that that would be one thing the two Helenas had in common. The Warehouse was Helena G. Wells’ home, in either timeline. 

“Yeah. We were trying to fix it. To… to bring it back, and then…” Myka nodded her head towards the garden, towards the TARDIS. “ _He_ said we weren’t supposed to mess with time. He said that was _his_ job.” 

“Then I hope he will do a good job fixing this,” this Helena said, her voice harder than before. “The world needs the Warehouse.”

“Yeah,” Myka said, hating how indifferent the huffed-out word sounded. Yes, the world did need the Warehouse. But right now, and even if _this_ world still had Pandora’s Box unopened in its Warehouse’s Ytterbium Vault, all Myka could think of was Steve, gone. Mrs. Frederic, gone. Pete, go- she choked, and then raised her hand to ward off this Helena’s immediate solicitous reaching out, and her eyes, once again greedy, once again acting of their own volition, raced along that hand, along this Helena’s outstretched hand, and landed on this Helena’s face like birds coming to roost. 

_At least I have this now_ , Myka thought. _One Helena, alive in front of me_. This world still had a Helena, in its Warehouse. Or close enough. It didn’t have a Steve. It didn’t have a Pe- 

Myka felt dizzy with grief and wondered why the room’s walls weren’t spiraling down with her. And as if this world didn’t have enough pain to spit at her with all the people-shaped gaps in it, it now presented her with Helena’s eyes in Helena’s face, full of honest, deep sympathy, full of concern, not polite attentiveness, full of the concern of a friend, not a recent acquaintance. It now presented her with a hand on her elbow, probably meant to steady her, probably meant to signal to her that here was a friend, but this was Helena’s face with Helena’s eyes in it, and Helena’s hand with Helena’s fingers on Myka’s elbow, and Myka had to turn, and leave, and run.

Unfortunately, her legs betrayed her, and so did her stomach. Grasping the large ceramic bowl that was suddenly pushed in front of her, Myka dropped to the floor and said goodbye to her dinner, her dignity, and her chances of going anywhere anytime soon.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short and sweet one, more of a coda to the last one than its own thing. But the last chapter already seemed so long, that's why I separated the two. I'd value any feedback on this decision!

“Thanks,” she gasped after a minute or two.

“Of course,” Helena said gravely. “It is fortuitous, I daresay, that I had a similar mishap earlier this evening.” This revelation came with a bit of a chuckle.

“Oh,” was all Myka could think of to reply to that. Then, “I’m sorry,” her conscience nudged her to add, and then rational thinking caused her to realize, “um, from your unbronzing?”

Helena sighed and nodded. “From what the Doctor tells me, he has attempted to ward off the most severe aftereffects, but he did warn me that nausea and diverse other symptoms could still be expected.” She sniffed. “I do not look forward to discovering them.”

“Sorry,” Myka repeated, slowly straightening her back and sitting up on her haunches. 

“There’s a bathroom at the end of the hallway,” Helena supplied, pointing in the right direction. 

“Thanks,” Myka replied, trying to get her legs under her. Her hands were shaking as if she’d run a marathon, and she couldn’t seem to-

“Here, let me,” Helena offered, taking the container from Myka and setting it onto the desk before reaching out again to help Myka get upright. “There.”

“Thanks,” Myka said again, blushing and hanging her head. “I’m sorry,” she said for the third time. “I’ll... I’ll bring this back in a minute,” she added, taking the bowl and heading out of the door, promising herself that the return trip would contain nothing more than a quick detour to give it back to Helena, and then straight to the room she was sharing with Claudia.

It was just that when Myka cleaned out the bowl, this Helena’s words about aftereffects of being unbronzed came back to her, and so ‘straight to the room I’m sharing with Claudia’ became ‘stand in the door to Helena’s room, trying to find a way to tell her that I know about aftereffects of being unbronzed without getting too personal.’

“Thank you,” this Helena smiled at Myka, relieving her of the bowl and setting it back on the desk. “Are you feeling at all better, Myka?”

 _In through the nose_ , Myka thought desperately, trying to ignore the way her name, in Helena’s voice, rang in her ears. _Out through the mouth_. This Helena, that Helena. This Helena wasn’t that Helena, wasn’t _her_ Helena, no matter that Myka’s name sounded exactly the same now, coming from these lips, as it had coming from _hers_. At least – Myka swallowed harshly, tasting bile (still? again?) – at least in the beginning. Before Moscow. Before reinstatement. Before evenings had been shared, and then nights. Before emotions had been, if not shared with so many words, then at least mutually… understood.

“Oh dear,” Myka dimly heard Helena say, “please do sit down.” She dimly saw a hand pointing towards the bead, dimly realized that she really shouldn’t stay, clearly knew she wasn’t going to go anywhere anytime soon. She sank down onto the bed and clenched her hands around its blanket-covered corner until her knuckles were white. 

_In through the nose,_ Myka told herself once more, _out through the mouth_. 

“Tell me, please,” Helena said, and sounded as though she wanted Myka to look at her, when Myka wanted nothing else but to look at her, and knew she really shouldn’t. “When did you last sleep, M- Agent Bering?”

 _Oh god, that is almost worse._ Why could this woman just not use any name at all? “Sleep?” Myka replied, feeling dazed. “Uh, I…” she tried to figure it out. “In France, I think. When we arrived?”

“And how long has that been?” This Helena had no business at all sounding amused, of all things. When Myka didn’t answer for a while, Helena continued, “More, or less, than twenty-four hours?” 

“Um.” Myka shook her head slowly. “More, I guess. I don’t know.”

“Then why not follow the Doctor’s suggestion and sleep now?” A hand patted the bed that Myka was sitting on. 

“But this is your bed,” Myka protested, and it was certainly not large enough for two people, this being England and the 1940s and all, she guessed. 

“And I won’t be using it,” Helena replied immediately. “I do not find myself at all tired, and the Doctor did point out that my sleep patterns would very probably be unsettled for quite a while. So by all means,” she patted the bed again, “make use of this if you don’t mind me staying and writing for a while.” There was a smile audible in her voice when she continued, “I find that it helps me order my thoughts; quite necessary at this juncture, and more important than rest that I do not need.”

Myka swayed a little. She longed to simply flop over and sleep, and knew for a fact that listening to Helena Wells’ pen scratching on a piece of paper would not prevent sleep; it never had. “I wouldn’t be bothering you?” she asked, out of courtesy more than anything, fighting to suppress a yawn.

“Oh nonsense,” came the brisk reply. “Go on, get your head down.” Helena’s hand, so familiar with its gold filigree ring, its scratches, the hint of smudges stubbornly clinging to folds of skin around the nails, this hand stopped patting the blanket and raised it, and Myka stopped resisting, stopped trying to make sense of things, stopped wanting to do the right thing. She lay there and felt Helena’s hands that were so familiar and yet weren’t cover her with a scratchy woolen blanket, felt Helena’s care to not touch, to not be overly forward. She lay there and listened to a voice that was so familiar and yet wasn’t, lay there and listened to movements that were so familiar and yet weren’t, lay there and fell asleep in an instant.


	9. Chapter 9

The first thing Myka saw when she woke up was a folded piece of paper sitting on the night stand. Her thoughts instantly ran cold at the idea that she might be looking at Helena’s handwriting, then relaxed again when she realized that the way the letters M-Y-K-A were written could only mean that Claudia had penned this. She took the piece of paper and smiled when she saw a big splotchy blot on the K, and an arrow pointing at it, and the comment ‘stoopid fountain pen’ scribbled next to it. 

“Myka,” she read, “this world’s H.G. suggested we should let you sleep, so it’s all her fault. Here’s your toothbrush and the clothes you picked out yesterday,” Myka looked across the room, and there was indeed a bundle of things lying on the desk, waiting for her. “The Doctor says not to worry and not to hurry, but I’m freaking out a little, and really could use your cool, level Myka-head when you feel up to it, Dozy.” Myka snorted and folded the paper again, grimacing at the taste that bile and sleep had left on her tongue. Brushing her teeth was definitely first on her agenda. 

Myka dressed quickly, taking care only when it came to transferring Helena’s locket safely from her old pants pocket to her new pants pocket. She could still remember the flash of elation she’d felt when she had found it in Hong Kong. She could also still remember the leaden feeling it had brought with it when, after the bomb’s explosion, she had found it in her pocket. There simply hadn’t been enough time to give it back to Helena while they had scrambled to save the Warehouse; there simply hadn’t been the right moment. Myka snorted softly. Story of their relationship, wasn’t it. Never enough time; never the right moment.

Claudia had forgotten to bring up her boots. Myka guessed that they were still in the room she’d been supposed to share with Claudia. She barely made any noise walking down the stairs. Which was probably the reason why, when she passed what Wolcott had called the ‘parlor,’ she heard voices in a conversation that probably wasn’t mean for Myka’s ears.

“-mean to say that she… that… that _you_ are… my m-mother?” a woman’s voice choked out. “You… you look as though you could be my daughter!” A feeble laugh followed this statement. “I… I don’t…”

“Christina,” Wolcott said gently, “that is one of the things I meant when I mentioned ‘endless wonder’ just now.” There was a slight pause. “We suspect it is also the reason why you don’t remember your childhood, dear.”

“What, you’re saying that one of these… artifacts caused that?” Christina sounded incredulous.

“There are, in fact, several artifacts that could have this kind of effect, yes.” This was Caturanga, friendly as ever. “While we don’t know which exact artifact was used in your case, we are quite certain that your amnesia did not come about through any kind of traumatic injury or accident.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, and a soft murmur from Wolcott. “Thank you, Wooly,” Helena said in a low voice. 

Christina laughed suddenly. “Wooly?” she asked. “It does make sense, come to think of it. Seeing as your name, apparently, is Wolcott and not Fletcher,” there was a short silence, in which Myka imagined a glare. “Is there anything else you should be telling me, Uncle Will?”

Myka decided she’d heard enough already, or more than. She retrieved her boots and walked outside, wondering where she might find Claudia, Artie, or the Doctor, for that matter. Her steps led her through the orchard and its rows and rows of apple trees, to where the TARDIS stood, a blue wooden box hardly larger than the iconic red phone boxes Myka remembered seeing in London. If Myka hadn’t known for a fact that this was the vehicle she’d stepped out of to get here, the vehicle she’d stepped into in Rome, Italy, 2012, she wouldn’t have believed that a time machine/space ship could ever look like this. 

“Weirdest-looking spaceship ever, am I right?” Claudia muttered, stepping around it, and Myka nodded forcefully. “Hey, Sleepyhead. They still talking back in there?”

Myka nodded again. “Yup. Claud, what time is it?” She’d looked at her wristwatch earlier, but that hadn’t really told her anything, because it was still set to Rome, Italy, 2012, and had no idea what the time was in Herefordshire, England, 1940. 

Claudia shrugged. “Around eleven, I guess, maybe half past. What? I wear shiny things, not watches.” She held up her wrists and waggled them a little. Then she sniffed. “Anyway, this stuff is weirding me out big time.” She kicked the ground aimlessly. “Time travel? Actual, physical, time travel, with… with, you know, consequences?” She looked up at Myka again and shook her head. “Weird as fuck.”

“Right?!” Myka replied, agreeing whole-heartedly.

“Also, running into a young, or young- _er_ , Mrs. Frederic? Also capital-W Weird.” Claudia shuddered. “Did I ever tell you that she took me to see her grandson? Our Mrs. Frederic, I mean?”

“What, Mrs. F?” Myka laughed weakly. “A grandson?”

“He’s in a _retirement_ home, Myka; he looked like he was eighty, _easy_.”

The smile slid off Myka’s face instantly. “What?!”

“Right?! Myka, _this_ is what the Warehouse has in store for _me_?! Dude, I spent twelve years looking for my brother while he was in some weird artifact limbo. H.G.,” Claudia gestured towards the house, “I mean, _this_ H.G., spends forty-odd years thinking her daughter is dead; _our_ H.G.-,” she broke off. “Well, you know _that_ better than me, anyway,” she finished after a moment. “And apparently Caretakers age a hundred times more slowly than anyone else, and, and…” she flapped her arms helplessly, and Myka took the opportunity to step forward and hug her, hard.

“And Steve’s gone, and Pete is, too,” Claudia whispered into Myka’s shoulder, “and, and H.G. is here even though she’s dead, and… I mean, seriously?! I don’t know how to deal with all this shitfuckery, and I keep thinking that when I’m Caretaker, and I’m ageing that slowly, this is gonna happen to me _all the time_ , and I have no idea how… Myka, I can’t…” she shook her head, burrowing into Myka’s embrace for a moment and clenching her fingers around the faux-leather jacket that Myka had found to wear. 

“I’m so sorry, Claud,” Myka breathed, holding the young woman tight. “Sometimes this job hurts us pretty bad, huh.”

Claudia huffed a kind-of-laugh and nodded. “Insane, evil, dead, or all three. And that’s when you’re just an agent,” she sniffed, and pulled slightly away to blow her nose. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s an important job, and I’m… kinda proud I’m allowed to do it? But, man, sometimes I gotta work really hard to justify it to myself, that’s all I can say.” She rolled her eyes. “And then, you know, that whole Caretaker thing? Which, as I’ve so recently learned, means that the Warehouse will move sometime soon?” She moved a twig around with the toes of her sneakers. “I… just hope you’ll be coming with me, you know what I’m saying?”

“Of course we will!” Myka nodded, immediately. Her thoughts were spinning. She remembered seeing an old photo of Mrs. Frederic, decades old, in fact; remembered thinking that it must have been a fluke back then. And now it appeared it wasn’t a fluke, wasn’t a mistake - it was what the future held in store for one of her best friends. Claudia, twelve years younger than Myka, would see Myka grow old – well, probably. Hopefully. Ideally. – would see Myka die. Would see people younger than her, people who were children now (their now, not _this_ now), people not even born – would see _them_ grow old and die. Over and over and over. 

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “It’s… it’s really shitty right now, isn’t it.”

“Yeah,” the redhead huffed, half laughing, half dabbing her eyes dry. “You can say _that_ a bit louder for the people in the back.”

“Ah, here you are!” a voice came from between the apple trees. Myka turned around, blocking Claudia from view. Wolcott was approaching them with a tentative smile. “Would you care to join us? Family reunion’s done, at least for the moment, and we thought we should get a move on the whole Warehouse business.” He looked around. “Is the Doctor with you? Your colleague? Mrs., ah, Frederic, if I remember correctly?”

Myka shook her head. “No, it’s just us here. I suppose they might be in there?” She pointed her thumb towards the TARDIS. “I’ll, um, I’ll just go back to the house with Claudia, and you… you check, okay? I’m sure you’ll find them.” She just wanted to give Claudia time to collect herself, Myka told herself as she reached out a hand to grasp Claudia’s and pulled her towards the house.


	10. Chapter 10

“Oh-kay,” the Doctor said when they were all seated around the big wooden kitchen table. “Warehouse Takeover Planning Committee, eh?” He beamed at them. “Everyone on board?”

“Excuse m-me,” Christina spoke up with a frown. Myka stole a furtive look; it was weird to think that this woman – fifty-seven; gray, pinned-back curls; frown lines between her eyebrows; laugh lines around her hazel eyes; married, widowed, two sons, upcoming grandchild – that this woman was Helena Wells’ daughter. Yes, she had some resemblance to the face on the photo in the locket that still rested safely in Myka’s pocket. And Myka could see some of Helena’s features in her daughter’s face, but not many, and none, not a single one of her mannerisms – which made some sense, if you considered that Christina’s memories of her mother had apparently been erased at the age of eight. 

“I’m afraid I’m n-not quite sure why there has to be a takeover at this point,” Christina Thomas, née Wells, went on. “If these artifacts are as powerful as you say, why _shouldn’t_ they be used to fight the Germans? People are _dying_.” She pointed outside to where one of her sons, James Junior, was unloading empty crates from a truck. “Every day I live in fear that m-my sons will be conscripted, despite the fact that they’re farmers and excluded from the N-National Services Act. Every day I wait for the telegram that calls them to the front. Their father died in Belgium, fighting Germans, and here we are, discussing a plan that would prolong this war, would cost the lives of m-more fathers, sons, and daughters and m-mothers, too.” She looked around the table. “Please don’t try to tell me that’s as should be.” Her gaze dropped to the table, then came up again, belligerent. “I’ve heard that the Germans are slaughtering people, children, _babies_ , for some m-m-m,” she took a deep, scowling breath, “ _mis_ begotten belief of racial purity.” She stared at Mrs. Frederic. “You can’t tell me that’s as should be.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Helena. “What on Earth…” she breathed, looking pleadingly at Wolcott, who was sitting on her right. “Wooly, what…?” She mutely shook her head, mouth forming the beginnings of thoughts that never made it into words.

“Um…” Wolcott said, blushing like a much younger man. “I’m afraid that… Well, when we tried to fill you in yesterday, we thought it prudent to concentrate on personal matters first, H.G.” He cleared his throat and shot Caturanga a pleading glance.

“Human nature has not changed for the better, Helena,” the old man sighed, reaching across the table to put his hand on Helena’s. “Surely you remember how bellicose everyone was at the end of the 19th century – a decade later, everyone was pulling at their bits to go to war, and when it broke out in 1914, many thought that it would be like a thunderstorm – quick to pass, and certain to clear the air.”

“The war to end all wars,” Christina grated with surprising venom. “And yet, barely two decades later, they were at it again. Goddamn Huns.” She glowered at the table, then looked up again. “I apologize. I’m sure there are m-mothers in the Reich right now, grieving for their husbands and afraid for their children. It’s…” she inhaled sharply through her nose. “It’s difficult to keep human kindness in your heart over events such as we’ve seen.” She looked up at Artie, Claudia, and Myka. “Please,” she said, “you’re from the future, can you-”

“Let me stop you right there,” the Doctor said quickly. “Please, Mrs. Thomas. Britain and her allies are doing everything they can to stop this war, I can assure you of that.”

“But they aren’t!” Christina exclaimed. “‘Everything’ would include these artifacts of yours,” she elaborated when everyone looked at her in shock, “and they’re n-not using them.”

“‘Everything’ would also include a Time Lord and his TARDIS,” the Doctor said gently, “and they’re not using that, either.” He leaned forwards, underarms resting against the table, fingers steepled. “Please, _please_ , you _must_ understand that some things _need_ to stay secret, some things absolutely _cannot_ be used, even in the direst of circumstances.”

“Artifacts always come with a downside,” Caturanga noted gravely. “We have in the Warehouse right now an artifact that can cure a person of many kinds of deathly illnesses,” he added. “But the downside is that whoever uses it to cure a person is drained of the will to live, and becomes morose, withdrawn, suicidal. Dozens of doctors have died, simply from curing their patients, before we retrieved that artifact for the Warehouse.” He nodded slowly. “And while many of these doctors, certainly, might have considered their one life a worthwhile exchange for the health of their patients, others might not.”

“There’s an artifact out there which can reverse time,” Artie added. “Go back twenty-four hours; everyone who died lives again, everything that was destroyed exists again. And yet…”

“And yet the downside is immeasurable,” whispered Caturanga. “You are talking about Magellan’s Astrolabe, are you not?” When Artie nodded, Caturanga turned fully to him. “Good gracious, please tell me you haven’t-”

“What?! Oh. No. No, no, I haven’t.” Artie shot the Doctor a furtive look. “I’ve been told its last use, or rather the downside of that, started Robespierre’s Reign of Terror,” he said, eyes back on the table and his folded hands. Myka gasped, and she was not the only one at the table to do so. “Basically, using it creates an evil that seeks to destroy, not just undo but actively _destroy_ , whatever good the user wrought with it. Imagine, just… _try_ and imagine what horrors the Astrolabe would unleash if it was used against the Nazis.” He looked up and met Christina’s eyes. Myka was shocked to see tears in them. 

“Mrs. Thomas, I’m Jewish,” Artie said simply. “My family is Jewish; the slaughter that you mentioned? I lost people, many people, family, friends of my family,” he broke off, wiping his eyes, not even trying to hide the movement, not even bothered by how the movement dislodged his glasses. He straightened them with an absentminded gesture. “Even if I wasn’t related to the people who died, who _are_ dying right this very minute, this would still be an abomination.” He sighed deeply. “And I still wouldn’t use artifacts in an attempt to save them.” 

His hand came up to his eyes again, thumb and forefinger squeezing his eyelids under his glasses, then dropping to the table once more. “And if you’re wondering _why_ I’m here then, obviously using any means I can to revert time – that is _not_ for personal gain, believe me. It is _not_ ,” he shot Claudia a quick, apologetic glance, “about saving any one person, or any number of people, no matter how much I would like to, no matter how much their death hurts. When the Warehouse, _my_ Warehouse, exploded, it destroyed Pandora’s Box. My world has lost hope, and believe me,” he raised his hand, “this world hasn’t.” He looked at Caturanga and Irene Frederic, his eyes asking for confirmation. 

Mrs. Frederic cleared her throat and nodded. “While the existence of Pandora’s Box is a secret I would have liked to have kept out of this, you are correct, Agent Nielsen, in assuming that it is still intact.”

“I know,” Artie breathed out, and Myka knew what he meant before he said his next words. “I can feel it.” She could, too. Artie contemplated his hands for a moment, then looked up at Christina again. “ _That’s_ why I’m here. Not to bring back people I… I _saw_ … die.” His jaws worked for a moment. “But to preserve hope, bring it back. Bring the Warehouse back, as a means to store artifacts safely. Do not believe,” he said fiercely, “for one _moment_ , that I don’t realize how much bad in the world could be prevented by using artifacts, how many deaths could be averted. Not one moment.” He spread his hands, pleading now. “But, please, believe me… I also know, _intimately_ , how much death and destruction artifacts can cause.” His eyes drooped for a moment, then regained their intensity. “As someone who’s worked for the Warehouse for decades, I support the decision to keep artifacts secret and hidden. One hundred percent.” He sighed again. “Even here, even today.”

Christina slowly stood. “Then m-my place is n-not here,” she said rigidly. “Pray excuse me.” She walked out of the room without a backwards glance.

Helena immediately rushed after her, followed shortly afterwards by Wolcott. Myka itched to do the same, but knew it wasn’t her part to be there for this Helena, to lend moral support or help figure things out. She tried very hard to concentrate on what the Doctor was telling Caturanga, who had got up at the same time as Wolcott.

“- _need_ your knowledge and advice, Caturanga, I beg you to stay with us and concentrate on this, rather than-”

“With all due respect, Doctor, if you expect me to stand idly by while my friend, who has been kept, unjustly!,” the old man shook a finger in the Doctor’s face, “from her family for more than four decades, tries to find some common ground with the daughter she thought dead for all that time,” he took a deep breath, “you, sir, are mistaken.”

“Sir, please,” Artie addressed Caturanga, “we _need_ to know what artifacts MacPherson could possibly be using, and you’re the only one who knows.”

“And what if I am!” Caturanga thundered. “You, Doctor, keep telling us you are a Time Lord, and in possession of a time machine. What does it matter if we postpone this discussion, in favor of making amends with our loved ones? With access to a time machine, what does it matter if we make our plans today, or tomorrow? What _does_ matter, Doctor, is that out there,” he stabbed his finger towards the window, “is a woman, two women, as a matter of fact, who are in need of the _one_ thing you all seem to think we do not have, yet we have access to in abundance - time!” And he, too, turned and stormed out of the room. 

“Well.” The Doctor ran his hand through his hair and pursed his lips. “That did not go as I thought it would.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay posting this! I was abroad last weekend and didn't have access to a computer. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter even if it's a bit late!

“Perhaps I can be of assistance,” Irene Frederic spoke up after a moment. 

“Good, yes, good!” The Doctor turned to her. “Yes, thank you, Irene – may I ca-” his enthusiasm faltered in the face of her eyebrow. “Mrs. Frederic, then.” He cleared his throat. “Yes, we do have access to the TARDIS, but one, I’m not sure that’ll actually give us more time with all this paradox business, and two, it might even be to our disadvantage – Mrs. Frederic, you knew that the TARDIS was in London when we arrived, am I right?” 

Mrs. Frederic nodded with a small smile. “I did indeed, Doctor, and believe me when I say it pains me to tell you, but that was not because the Warehouse has a way of detecting the TARDIS when it is close.”

Everyone took a moment to parse that. The Doctor was fastest. “Good, good,” he repeated, “that _is_ good. So we won’t be followed here by someone wielding a TARDIS-finding artifact contraption.” 

“Correct,” the Caretaker confirmed. “As far as I know,” she then amended. “Nevertheless, Doctor, I still do think that time is of the essence. So even in the absence of Mr. Caturanga, I would propose that we continue our planning, or at the very least assemble what we know.”

Artie nodded emphatically at this. “Yes. Yes! Absolutely agreed. Mrs. Frederic – oh this is so weird,” he muttered to himself. Then he took a deep breath and forged on, “Mrs. Frederic, can you tell us what kinds of safety measures MacPherson, or whatever he calls himself these days, has put in place around him?”

“I have some idea about them, yes,” Mrs. Frederic replied. “But it is not only the Head of the Regents, a Mr. Havisham by name, who we need to worry about, Agent Nielsen. He is certainly the ringleader, yes, but his views are shared by many Regents, and more than a few agents as well. Small wonder, since he’s had decades to install just such Regents and agents who are amenable to his ideas.”

Claudia whistled softly. “So, basically, we need to take out ‘the lot of them’, as you Brits would say?”

The Doctor and Mrs. Frederic shared a look. “I’m not sure who you mean by ‘you Brits,’ Agent Donovan. I _am_ American by birth,” Mrs. Frederic said stiffly. “But the general thrust of your statement is correct. Barring a few exceptions I can vouch for myself, we are going to have to assume that every Regent and every agent will oppose us.” She shifted in her seat. 

“So… so how do we even do this?” Myka asked. “Is there… I don’t know, an impeachment procedure or something? How do you make a Regent not be a Regent?”

“I’m afraid there isn’t, Agent Bering,” Mrs. Frederic said. “However, our greatest advantage is that the Warehouse itself is… somewhat sentient.” She inhaled sharply. “I am not certain how much you know about this, and I implore you to keep this secret better, far better than the secret of Pandora’s Box, do you understand me?” She looked at each of them in turn, until they all had nodded their agreement. 

“The Warehouse has been dissatisfied with the current policies as much as I have,” the Caretaker went on. “It is barely tolerating Havisham, even though he lives on the premises.”

“Tell me you’ve seen it zap him,” Claudia breathed, eyes dark with malicious glee. “Please.”

Irene Frederic merely raised an eyebrow at her before she turned her attention to Artie. “The only real power the Regents have, beyond the Remati Shackle,” she continued, “is the power of words: appointment or termination of agents, making decisions and rules of conduct. And even that power derives from the consent of the Warehouse.”

“So if we got the Shackle away from them, and then told them they’re no longer Regents, the Warehouse would approve of that, and they’d be stuck up the brown creek?” Claudia said. “That’d be it?”

“That would be quite accurate, Agent Donovan.”

“Huh. That’s handy.”

“Okay, then, um, how do we get the Shackle away from them?” Myka asked. “I bet this Havisham has it on him, right?”

“He does indeed,” Mrs. Frederic confirmed. “As well as its key.”

“Don’t worry about the key,” the Doctor interjected, raising and twiddling his sonic screwdriver. “I’ll take care of that if necessary.”

“He’s the only Regent to actually live in the Warehouse, right?” Myka pressed. “They haven’t all moved in?”

“Correct,” the Caretaker confirmed, inclining her head. 

“So if we activate the Shackle, no one can get in or out until the danger to the Warehouse is gone,” Myka said. “That’d give us time to go after Havisham.”

“We’d have to make sure we’re on the right side of the force field when that happens,” Artie added, “I see where you’re going, Myka.”

“Make sure the Warehouse is as empty as possible, with MacPherson, or Havisham or whatever, still inside; get into the Warehouse, set off the Remati Shackle’s force field somehow, get rid of MacPherson; un-Regent the Regents and un-agent the agents, weed out bad apples, reboot from start,” Claudia rattled off. “Could work.”

“Could definitely work,” Artie agreed. “We need to find something threatening enough to the Warehouse to set off the-” he broke off, and then groaned, rubbing his hands down his face. “September 1940,” he muttered. “Of course.”

“The London Blitz,” Myka breathed, understanding his meaning. She gulped. 

“Seriously?!” Claudia squeaked, looking shocked. “Guys. Whatever you decide to do, if we do _that_ , you can’t tell Mrs. Thomas out there, you know that.”

They looked at one another uncomfortably for a moment, then Artie cleared his throat and said, “Well. We might still come up with something better, but…” an expression of unease flittered across his face. Myka could see him turn away from this topic, and then he continued, “Next, we need to draw out Mac- uh, Havisham. For this, we do have one advantage.” He smiled a nasty little smile when everyone was looking at him. “Me.” Then he tilted his head and added, “well, us.”

“MacPherson doesn’t know it’s us who’s going to be hunting him,” Myka realized. “You… Artie, you know how he thinks. You can predict how he’ll react! And he won’t count on… well, basically outside people, right, in the Warehouse, instead of agents that he knows inside and out. Artie, that’s brilliant!”

“We do need Caturanga’s and your knowledge of the Warehouse,” Artie told Mrs. Frederic, “to map out traps, lines of sight, escape routes, anything that’ll help us. And we need to know how he’s protecting himself – he’s a sneaky, smart, suspicious old spider, sitting in a web he’s been spinning for decades; we _have_ to be prepared.”

“Nicely put, Agent Nielsen,” the Doctor grinned. “I’d like to add that he’s currently inhabiting a body that’s not his, even though he’s been in it for almost fifty years now. If at all possible, I’d like to find a way to deal with your MacPherson that allows Mr. Havisham to return to, or regain control of, his body.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Artie cleared his throat. “Good point. Very good point.”

“Wouldn’t that make MacPherson some kind of ghost?” Claudia asked. “I mean, we force him out of Havisham’s body, where will he go? Oogie around in the Warehouse? Return to the body he presumably has somewhere in H.G.’s time machine? Hang on, though, that was never built, was it?” She rubbed her forehead. “Ugh, this is giving me a headache.” 

“Oh, you’re not doing so badly!” The Doctor grinned again. “I like Warehouse agents. Warehouse agents are cool. Rarely fazed, quick thinkers, prepared to give credence to funny stuff.” He wiggled his fingers during the last two words, then grimaced. “Too bad the TARDIS and the Warehouse don’t get along, really. I’m sure I’d like being a Warehouse age-”

“Dude, don’t even-”

“Doctor, you will _never_ -”

Both Irene Frederic and Claudia Donovan had spoken at the same time. They looked at each other, bafflement evident in a raised eyebrow on one face and round eyes and mouth in the other. Claudia looked away first, blushing furiously. 

“I repeat, Doctor,” Mrs. Frederic said, sounding pleasantly dignified, “you will never be a Warehouse agent. That is one rule that will _not_ change, I am quite, quite certain.”

“Oh alright, alright. I’m not really good at government jobs in any case,” the Doctor muttered.


	12. Chapter 12

Late night found Myka at Helena’s door again. Once again, it was open, and once again, she could see Helena sitting at her desk, writing. A sad frown shadowed Helena’s face, and Myka teetered for a moment, not wanting to intrude. She was about to turn around and leave when Helena looked up at her. The frown receded a bit, and Helena’s sigh was accepting, not annoyed. “Do come in, Agent Bering,” she said, gesturing for Myka to step inside.

“Thank you,” Myka replied and sat down on the bed once more, this time of her own volition – her legs felt quite stable after a day with two full meals, not to mention a full night’s sleep. She pulled her thoughts away from musings on why exactly she’d slept that well, and theories that revolved around a certain person’s presence. This Helena was not that person, Myka told herself, no matter what her sleep-deprived brain had thought. “Are you,” she stopped and cleared her throat, “are you okay?”

Helena raised her eyebrows, then tilted her head. “Are you asking after my physical well-being, or my emotional status?” she asked back.

Myka blushed. “Valid question,” she admitted. “Um, a bit of both, to be honest. Even though I realize that the second part is none of my business.”

Helena smiled. “It is a conundrum, is it not?” she said. “You find yourself struggling to differentiate between me and the Helena Wells that you know – I find myself struggling to reconcile the woman I met today with the daughter I remember.” She took a deep breath. “Our perceptions and preconceptions make fools of us all, don’t they,” she exhaled. “To answer your question,” she continued, looking up at Myka with another smile – smaller, but somehow truer, “I am mostly well, but appreciative of your company and thoughtfulness.”

Myka found herself returning that smile shakily. “So far so good, then?” she asked. 

Helena nodded. “So far, so good.”

“I, um,” Myka began, and cleared her throat again, “I wanted to… yesterday, after I… um, before I… you know,” she gestured towards the bed, and Helena nodded, “I, ah, I know some of the aftereffects. Of coming out of the bronze,” she said finally, fixing her eyes on a loose strand of the rug at her feet, and wrapping her hands around the bed’s frame again. Seeing Helena smile at her, _this_ Helena, was threatening a lot of walls that Myka had carefully constructed around her emotions. 

“Oh.” That was all Helena said, and Myka’s thoughts raced trying to decipher what that tone of voice meant without looking up to see the expression on this Helena’s face. “Oh,” Helena repeated, drawing the syllable out a bit longer this time. “I see.”

“I thought that…” Myka waved a hand vaguely in Helena’s direction, “that you might appreciate knowing what could be ahead for you, and…” she swallowed and forged forward, “and learning what might help.”

“You are absolutely correct about that,” Helena replied, in a voice that had no business sounding this… neutral.

 _We all have our coping mechanisms_ , Myka reminded herself, and almost looked over at the other woman. “Um, you said yesterday that the Doctor has already done something to help?” she asked.

“Oh! Indeed, yes. That instrument he has, the sonic screwdriver,” no longer neutral, Myka noted, stealing a glance towards eyes full of intense fascination, and immediately regretting it, while Helena went on, “he said he, ah, ‘syphoned off the worst of it,’ as he put it. He also pointed out that he hadn’t run into very many unbronzed people, certainly none as recently as I, and told me to be wary of…” Helena’s voice petered away, and Myka heard her swallow.

“The, um… the Helena that I knew,” Myka told the rug, “wasn’t exactly _recently_ unbronzed when we met. It’d been several days for her, and she seemed fine. It was quite a while later that she told me… about things like sensory confusion, and, uh, indigestion, and… and nightmares and such.” She consciously loosened her grip on the bed, knowing her tendons would hurt tomorrow anyway. “So, um,” she shrugged, almost looking up, “what I can tell you is second-hand, and, and, um, what with you having the Doctor to help, it might not even apply. Just so you know.”

“I understand,” Helena said again. “Nevertheless, I would appreciate you telling me.” There was a soft rustling sound; Myka thought the other woman had leaned forward, but looking up to verify that was out of the question.

She took a deep breath. “Sure. Um. So, uh,” the fingers of her left hand found a knot of yarn on the blanket, and started to pick on it, “she said that being in the light hurt; sunlight, artificial light, anything. Everything hurt, at first. You know, her sensory system having been dormant for so long.”

“Ah. Yes,” another, even softer rustling must be Helena nodding, Myka thought. “I was overjoyed when I found clothes made of silk, or something very much like it, in the Doctor’s wardrobe,” Helena continued, and at the edges of her current field of vision, Myka saw her tugging at the hem of her top. “The blankets Caturanga had wrapped me in, while of course necessary, were extremely itchy on my skin.”

Myka nodded. Helena – her Helena – had loved the soft fabrics and fibers the 21st century had offered her. “She said that of all the aftereffects, that one was the worst. Even after weeks and months had passed, she’d sometimes have instances of sensory overload, or sensory confusion,” Myka went on. “And that it took her a very long time to figure out how to handle them. So, I guess you’ll end up ahead of that when I tell you?”

“Please do,” Helena said quietly. 

“Okay, so,” Myka took another deep breath, “so it’s a very scary situation, okay? When your senses tell you something you’re certain isn’t true, or they tell you that everything is… is just too much, you know?” She heard Helena inhale sharply, heard her swallow again, continued, “So sometimes that’d kick off a panic attack, and… and sometimes it would just be unsettling as hell.”

“I hesitate to imagine,” Helena stated, “but I’m afraid I can.”

“So, my, I mean, the other Helena,” Myka went on, “had a few strategies for what she’d do in either case. Panic attacks are actually a pretty well-researched thing in my time,” she added, smiling a crooked smile, “and I really wish I could just,” she fluttered her hand towards the door, “pop into my room and get you a few of the books I keep there. I mean,” she said quickly, “the room in the B&B. Um, in the US. In the, uh, future.” She shook her head at herself. “God, that totally sounds like a bad movie.”

From the corners of her eyes, she saw Helena nod with, she was pretty sure, a small, indulgent smile. Myka quickly concentrated on the little knot of yarn again. “What helped her most, she said, depended very much on the situation she found herself in.” She shrugged apologetically. “Sometimes she could prevent a panic attack by simply removing herself from a situation, you know? If something got too much, she’d go to where it was less. Less loud, for example, or less bright. She became really good at recognizing signs for when something was getting too much for her.” Myka grimaced a little. “Not so good at giving herself the leeway to actually withdraw, in the beginning, at least.”

“I understand,” Helena replied to that, and Myka heard the smile this time. “I can be quite stubborn at trying to hide imperfections and weaknesses.”

Myka huffed a laugh. “Yeah.” She stopped worrying the little knot of yarn when she felt it give, and started running her hand lightly up and down the blanket instead. “She, uh, she also had this ring,” Myka continued, “that she would fidget with.” She mimicked the motion with her thumb at the base of her forth finger. Helena nodded her understanding, and Myka remembered seeing the same ring on her finger. Myka frowned, and shook her head quickly. “It’s… weird,” she added, “I didn’t see her wear it when…” she broke off, fighting to keep the memories of the Warehouse’s last moments in their proper mental drawers.

“Was it something like this?” Helena held up her right hand and, sure enough, there the ring was in all its spindly, spiraling glory. “Caturanga kept it for me, along with my other mementos.”

“Yes.” Myka swallowed and looked away again quickly.

“Then she probably used it somewhere,” Helena said. 

“Used it?”

“Seven inches of gold wire,” Helena said, lowering her hand again, “pretty, yes, but also handy in a pinch. Easily malleable, excellent conductor – Nicola Tesla gave this to me when we were working on the weapon that bears his name.” She chuckled and added, “With stern instructions not to misconstrue his intent – not that I would. So I suppose that… she… used it at some point.”

“Oh,” was all Myka could reply. Would she ever know all there was to know about Helena G. Wells? Would there be no end of finding out things after it was too late? She took a deep breath, trying to return to her initial topic. “Um, this is all,” she went on quickly, “stuff for before an actual panic attack happens, okay?”

“I see,” Helena said, obviously realizing that the excursion to Memory Lane was over. “I think it would help if I understood a bit better what exactly you mean by ‘panic attack’, Agent Bering.”

Myka took a deep breath at being addressed like that, but, to Helena’s credit, addressing her as ‘Myka’ hadn’t exactly yielded such great results yesterday. So she proceeded to outline the symptoms and effects of a panic attack, with a crash course on the necessary medical and neurobiological advancements science had made between the end of the 19th century and Myka’s present. She felt no inhibition at all to tell this woman things that wouldn’t be discovered in the next five decades and more. She knew Helena would need them. Barely two minutes in, Helena reached for her journal, and started taking notes.


	13. Chapter 13

“I never realized we were so much beholden to the products of _glands_ ,” Helena said, with an impressive tang of distaste, when Myka had finished. Apparently being subject to glandular secretion was on a par with owning a cat.

The memory made Myka chuckle, which caught in her throat when she remembered how the rest of that day had played out. “There’s been a really hot debate going on for decades,” she then said, willing her thoughts to a different topic, “about whether free will exists at all, on a neurobiological level.” She dipped her head. “Helena found it offensive to even think about.”

“I second that.” Helena chuckled. “Which is only logical, I suppose.”

 _From laughter to lack of breath in three seconds_ , Myka thought, struggling to get her lungs to cooperate. “Yeah,” she managed, with half a breath. 

“Oh dear me, I am ever so sorry,” Helena said, reaching out a hand that Myka shied away from as if it was on fire. The hand dropped immediately, and Helena sighed. “I do apologize, My-, I mean Agent Bering.” Helena shifted in her chair. “It is not at all my intention to make you uncomfortable, or aggravate the grief you surely must feel. And yet I keep stumbling into too much familiarity, or the wrong word at the wrong time. I shall very much try to do better.”

Myka pulled her knees up to her chest, hugging them for comfort. “It’s…” she took a deep breath. 

“Please do not try to tell me it’s ‘okay’, or ‘fine’, or any of those evasions,” Helena said gently. “You are doing me a great kindness, informing me about panic attacks and their neurobiological underpinnings,” the words were sitting more familiarly on Helena’s tongue, Myka could tell, “and I would be remiss in repaying you with anything less than equal thoughtfulness.” Helena leaned forward, just a little, as if to reassure Myka that there would be no more over-reaching. “Please, do tell me, Agent Bering – how can I make this easier for you?” she asked.

Myka didn’t laugh a harsh laugh, but forced it back down her throat. ‘By not being here’, she didn’t say, but forced that back down as well. “I don’t know,” she did say, shaking her head. “Maybe… maybe it would help if you didn’t say my name, or called me ‘Agent Bering’? It… it reminds me of…” her mouth snapped shut, as did her eyes. 

“I can certainly attempt that,” Helena replied carefully. “Is there anything else you’d like me to call you instead?”

“Ophie,” Myka said thickly, and without thinking. She frowned, then shrugged. It was what Tracy had called her when she wanted to be annoying; it was not connected to Helena, _any_ Helena; it might work. “My sister’s nickname for me,” she explained, shrugging again.

“Ophie,” Helena repeated, trying it out, and Myka swallowed hard. At least it wasn’t ‘Myka’, said _that_ way, by _that_ voice, in _that_ accent. “Would it be acceptable if I called you Ophie?” Helena asked outright, giving Myka one last out.

Myka inhaled, nostrils flaring. Would it? “I guess,” she said, breath leaving her with a whoosh. “We can try?”

“Then try we shall,” Helena said. “Thank you, Ophie.” Myka almost giggled. No one had ever (well, Tracy had never) said that and meant it. “And if you would find it easier,” Helena added hesitantly, then blurted out, “Georgie.”

Myka’s eyebrows shot up. “So your middle name _is_ George?” she asked, wondering if she’d finally find out. 

“Oh dear goodness, no,” Helena – Georgie – laughed. “But as my lovely brother Charles was wont to say, it might as well be, seeing how like a man I insisted on behaving.” Her eyes suddenly grew troubled. “I wonder if he’s still…” she shook herself, flashing Myka an unconvincing smile, “tangents, I’m afraid.” Helena sighed. “We were talking about norepinephrine, I believe,” she continued, “and the symptoms of its release into the bloodstream.” She smiled weakly. “I have to say I recognize quite a few of them,” she added.

“Good,” Myka said. 

“How on Earth is that good, M- um, Ophie?” 

“Because it means you’ll remember them. Try to not forget about the others, too. You did write them down, right?” Myka asked. 

Helena nodded. “I do like to take notes on my research,” she said, then looked up and eyed Myka warily. 

Myka sighed and smiled, and only then realized that she was looking at Helena in the first place. _Georgie – think of her as Georgie_ , she told herself, and quickly looked at the rug again, finding its loose threat like an old friend. “Yeah. She did, too,” she mumbled. “Although no longer by hand, in most cases.” From the corner of her eyes, she saw Hel- Georgie’s eyebrows rise. “Another tangent, I’m afraid,” Myka said quickly, “I’d like to stay on this for now?”

“A sensible suggestion,” the other woman agreed, turning back to her journal and pen. “So far, we have covered early warning signals, preventative measures, the neurobiological background of a panic attack, and the symptoms of norepinephrine release. I believe,” she smiled over her shoulder, and Myka looked quickly down again, “that we are ready to discuss treatment options and – what did you call them? Coping strategies?”

“Not bad for a couple hours,” Myka mumbled and stretched her neck. She let go of her knees and settled cross-legged on the bed, which had the added benefit of warming her feet. It wasn’t quite winter-in-the-B&B cold in here, but it _was_ September, and the house was just as old, if not older. “First of all,” she sighed, “please, please, _please_ don’t ever try and use drugs to help with this – medical drugs, I mean, although,” she grimaced, “you should stay away from other drugs too, obviously.” 

Helena’s eyebrows rose wordlessly. Myka rubbed her neck, trying to express her concerns understandably. “If I remember correctly, around this time, medical scientists are starting to look into treatments for mental conditions, and the stuff they’re coming up with is in many cases highly addictive and/or has serious side effects, you understand? Plus, a lot of the time pharmacists and doctors don’t even know why a drug has the effects it has, they just market it. So _please_ stay away from that, okay? I don’t think you’re gonna need it.” She certainly hoped so, anyway. Her Helena had had quite a number of pill bottles on her night stand, still, at least until the Janus Coin had rendered them unnecessary. But they had been for emergencies only, and Helena, her Helena, had barely used them.

Helena nodded, looking unsettled enough that Myka was reasonably sure the other woman would heed her warning. 

“So, what you should do instead is find ways of calming yourself down, okay, and practice them so much that they become ingrained,” Myka continued. “Breathing techniques, intensive workouts… um, like Kenpo,” she added as an explanation, seeing Helena frown as she jotted down notes.

“Ah,” Helena nodded again, adding the word to her journal. “Such a workout, as you call it, would increase my metabolism, and thus speed up decomposition of the norepinephrine?”

Myka shook her head, grinning. “Indeed it would,” she said, marveling. “Other methods,” she went on, “are meditation, visualizing positive images, prayers.” Dryly, she added, “some people suggest singing, but…”

“Clearly they have never heard me sing,” Helena murmured.

For a moment, Myka felt like laughing out loud. Instead, the room suddenly seemed deplete of air entirely. _In through the nose,_ she thought, fighting to implement the suggestion. _Come on, in through the nose!_ With a strangled gulp, she finally sucked in air through her mouth, releasing it in a series of barely controlled almost-sobs. The next breath she took came more steadily; the one after that barely caused any trouble at all. Myka took a few more until they behaved better, then said, “Please don’t say anything along the lines of you hadn’t even started singing yet, okay?” She gave Helena – _Georgie!_ – a crooked smile. “I’m one hundred percent sure I could not handle that.”

“Duly noted,” Helena nodded, her face still slightly concerned. 

“Thank you.” And trying to think of Helena as ‘Georgie’ was probably a lost cause, too, Myka realized.

“What… what else do I need to know?” Helena asked after a moment’s silence. “Meditation, I already know a bit about. Part of Kenpo training is the practicing of both active and sitting meditation.”

“Active medi- oh, you mean like Tai Chi?” Myka asked. 

“Yes,” Helena nodded with a smile, happy that Myka knew what she was talking about, “Tai Chi Chuan is one form of the Qi Gong. My Kenpo teacher insisted that it was part and parcel of the martial art, and so I’ve been trained in it.” she shrugged and smiled. “I can see how it would help.” Her smile turned to a grimace. “It didn’t help so much _in_ the bronze, as I recall, but maybe now that I am out of it.”

“Yeah.” Myka ran a finger along the inseam of her pant leg, up, down – the sensation was soothing, she thought, distracting her from the mental image of trying to meditate while in suspended animation. _Back to the topic at hand._ “What you also need,” she continued after a moment and looked up to meet Helena’s eyes, because this was important, “really, _really_ need,” she repeated, “is help. Other people’s, I mean.” She waved towards the rest of the house. “You said earlier that you’re stubborn about your imperfections and weaknesses – this, _this_ is _not_ something you should apply that to, okay?” She leaned forward, intent on getting this point across. “Do not,” she said seriously, “do not try to, to… to _bull-head_ your way through a panic attack when you’re out in public, or something like that.” 

She raised an eyebrow at Helena, who suddenly looked away, blushing. “Uh-huh,” Myka added. “Do talk about this with, I don’t know, Mr. Wolcott? Caturanga? Maybe Christina? People who you trust to keep you grounded, people who know you well enough to pull you out of a situation if you can’t do it yourself, people who aren’t intimidated by your – yes, _that_ glare.” Myka pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. “Look, I’m _not_ saying you’re too weak to do this on your own – I know you’re not. I think you’re one of the strongest people I’ve met, actually. What I _am_ saying is that there are things that go much, much better if you’re not alone in there.” Myka tilted her head, watching Helena chew the inside of her lower lip. “I know this is going to be the hardest part about it,” she said gently, “but you gotta understand, okay? This isn’t a weakness. This is nothing that you need to hide. It’s something you can address and overcome with the right strategies and with the right help. Okay?” 

Helena, still not meeting Myka’s eyes, took a deep breath. “You are quite right in labeling this as the hardest part,” she said. 

“Promise me,” Myka said softly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Hele-,” Myka swallowed harshly, fighting for composure for a moment as the name threatened to unravel her thought process. But this was important – not for her, but for Helena. She _had_ to understand, _had_ to agree to this. “Helena,” Myka repeated, “I’m not gonna be here for long, and my… my lecture and your notes, even your knowledge and practice of Tai Chi will only get you so far. For your sake, for the sake of getting better, for, for… for the sake of being healthy, being _sane_ ; promise me, Helena, that you will talk with people about this, at least two people; people who will be around you often enough to actually, effectively help you with this. Promise me you’ll show them your notes, _all_ of your notes, and ask them to help you. Promise me you will _not_ try to get through this by yourself.” She smiled grimly. “I know you know why I’m asking you for a promise on this one.”

Helena grimaced. “Oh, I am perfectly aware.”

“So promise.”

Helena finally met Myka’s eyes, if only for a moment before her eyes fluttered close. She breathed in, held her breath for a moment, breathed out again. Looked up at Myka again. “I promise,” she said, then smiled shakily. “I… do believe I have never before been so gently but inexorably badgered into something,” she added, taking another deep breath. “I…” her eyes fluttered again, but differently this time. 

Myka leaned forward, suddenly concerned. “Helena?”

“Oh!” Helena said, sounding mildly surprised, and slumped forward, sliding off her chair in a faint.

“Helena!”


	14. Chapter 14

Myka caught the unconscious body before it slid to the floor, then pulled Helena to the bed. Helena – _her_ Helena, Myka corrected herself – had told her about that, too; sudden and unpredictable spikes or slumps in blood pressure and blood sugar levels, palpitations, fainting spells. Her Helena had not liked them at all, and small wonder – they seriously limited what she could do on her own. Luckily, she’d said, they had only bothered her for about a week, but even that had been entirely too long. Myka smiled grimly as she remembered how put out her Helena had sounded. 

This Helena’s clothing was loose and flowing, Myka checked almost automatically, and her breathing was unobstructed. Her pulse was slightly faster than usual, but not worryingly so. The only thing Myka had to do now was- 

There was a tap at the still-open door. 

“Excuse me?” Christina Thomas was standing outside, looking worried. “I heard you call out just n-now, and…” she nodded towards the prone figure on the bed. “Is everything alright?”

Myka nodded, gesturing for Christina to come inside. The older woman did so and closed the door behind her. “Helena fainted,” Myka explained. “I, um… I’m not sure how much she or, or Wolcott, or the Doctor have told you about… you know. Um. The…”

“Being bronzed, you m-mean?” Christina asked acerbically. “The Doctor said there could be some aftereffects, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Yeah,” Myka affirmed, exhaling in relief. “This is one of them,” she added, “but one that shouldn’t happen very often.”

Helena’s eyelids fluttered, and she mumbled something. 

“Mama?” Christina said tentatively, stepping up to the bed and sinking down on it, balancing on its edge. She took one of Helena’s hands, and jealousy flared up in Myka fast, hot and blinding, that Christina felt she could so easily do that when Myka couldn’t, wouldn’t even contemplate- 

Myka took another deep breath, pulling herself together. “I… uh, I should be-” she began, making her way towards the door.

“N-no, please, stay,” Christina replied, looking around at her instantly. “I… I hardly know my… my m-m-mother at all. You… uh, seem to be… m-more familiar with her?”

Myka closed her eyes, fighting to contain a multitude of inappropriate responses. “Yes and no,” she answered finally. “It’s complicated,” she added, fully aware that that didn’t explain much more. 

Helena’s whole body jerked violently, once, and Christina yelped as she turned back around to her. “What on-”

“It’s okay,” Myka replied immediately, coming closer again and taking up station behind Christina. “Sometimes this is how people wake up from a faint,” she elaborated. 

“So she’s waking up?” Christina asked for confirmation, her eyes focused on her mother’s face.

“Um, she should be, yeah,” Myka said, running her eyes across Helena’s face. “Color back in her cheeks,” she pointed out, “and her breathing is less shallow than it was just now. She’d be-”

“What…” Helena mumbled thickly and twitched again, much less pronounced than before. 

“It’s alright, Helena,” Myka told her across Christina’s head. “You fainted, and now you’re waking up. Everything’s okay, don’t worry.” She kept her voice soothing and low. “You’ll probably feel cold,” she added, “and shivery, and that’s okay too, that’s normal.”

“Norepinephrine?” Helena, without opening her eyes, asked weakly, making Christina frown and Myka huff a feeble laugh. 

“Something like that, yeah,” Myka told her. “Just stay put for a bit; give your body time to recover, okay?” She saw a shiver run across Helena’s body again. “Are you cold?” she asked.

“Behind you,” Christina supplied when Helena nodded. “Second drawer, additional blankets,” she added. 

Myka took the softest blanket she could find out of the dresser that Christina had indicated, and passed it over to Helena’s daughter. 

“Thank you,” Helena said when the blanket was covering her. After a few moments, she added, eyes still closed, “I still seem to be shivering.” 

“Yup,” Myka replied, “and that’s totally as expected.”

“Ah,” Helena nodded, opening her eyes. She immediately groaned and started blinking rapidly. “Could you-” she pointed at the ceiling fixture. 

“Oh! Sure,” Myka said and walked towards the light switch. Christina wordlessly turned on the small lamp on the night stand, and Myka flipped the switch to extinguish the ceiling light.

“Thank you,” Helena breathed, relaxing visibly. “I will say, M- um, Ophie, that apart from feeling cold, I am intensely intrigued. This is fascinating.”

“If you say so,” Myka replied slowly, exchanging a look with Christina that told Myka that Helena’s daughter felt just as incredulous about Helena’s reaction as she did.

Through another tremor, Helena hummed an affirmation, then gasped. “Oh… Ophie, _this_ now… is… hngh…” Helena’s back arched violently, almost flinging her off the bed. Suddenly, with a guttural sound, she started clawing at her clothing, groaning and snarling when her fumbling fingers failed her.

“What-,” Christina began, raising, turning, staring at Myka, then back at her mother with wide-open eyes.

“All part of the aftereffects, Mrs. Thomas,” Myka said, rushing towards the other side of the bed. “You wanna help, you get the blanket off her and help me take off her clothes. All of them.”

“B-but-,” Christina sounded confused and slightly scandalized.

“ _Now_ , Mrs. Thomas,” Myka said forcefully. “Her senses are overloading, fighting against the input they’re receiving from the different textures of,” she pulled the blanket off in one fast motion, and tried to catch Helena’s hands, “all these different kinds of fabric, okay?”

“Alright,” Christina said tremulously. She swallowed, and started pulling down Helena’s pants. “You kn-now what you’re doing, then?”

Myka took the time to meet Christina’s eyes. “Yes,” she said simply, then concentrated on Helena again. It had only happened once while she’d been present, but Myka remembered alright. “Oh,” she added, “I think it would help if you spoke to her. Call her by name, tell her that things are alright. She’ll hear you, some part of her will. And it’ll help her calm down, okay?”

“O-okay,” Christina stuttered. “He-Helena?” she called softly. “Helena, it’s alright, we’re here. We’ll help, alright? Don’t worry, we’ll get through this, Helena.” 

“She’s definitely listening,” Myka said, “her hands, here, take them. I’ll take over for you. Just keep talking to her, okay?” She relinquished Helena’s hands and started on the task of getting Helena’s shirt off, hampered both by the many flowing layers and the necessity to coordinate with Christina for getting Helena’s arms out of her sleeves. “I’ll get the blanket ready; the softer one,” she told Christina when they were done. “We’ll try and see if she can stand having that on her skin, or if she’ll flip out because it constricts her when it’s wrapped around her, okay?”

Someone knocked on the door and called, “Everything alright in there?”

Christina swore under her breath. “Just dandy, Uncle Will,” she shouted over her shoulder, “we’re fine. Just give us a m-moment, alright?” She turned to Myka. “We are, aren’t we? My m-m-m-” Christina Thomas broke off, sighed impatiently and rolled her eyes at herself, “uh, Helena is?” she finished.

Myka nodded. “She will be,” she said, aiming for confidence. 

“If you’re sure,” Wolcott’s voice came through the door. “I’ll, ah, I’ll just, um, I’ll be here then, shall I?”

“Fine,” Christina called, rolling her eyes again, this time in his direction. Then she shook her head. “When I heard that my m-mother had come back, I didn’t think I’d be called in to m-mother _her_ ,” she added, smiling a little to herself. 

“She is going to need you,” Myka confirmed, having retrieved the blanket and holding it against Helena’s arms, trying to gauge if this was a good step or not. To judge by the shuddering jerk away, it wasn’t. “Damnit,” Myka grated. Her hand brushed along Helena’s arm by accident, but that, it seemed, was not a bad step – Helena stopped her struggle momentarily, causing Myka to do a double take. “Huh,” she said, and tried the same motion again. “Seems _this_ works,” she concluded. 

“I’ve always liked it,” Christina said softly. “Uncle Will would do this sometimes when I was small.” She ran her fingertips down Helena’s back, which currently was turned her way, and Helena’s eyes fluttered and relaxed. Christina looked at Myka with questioning eyes. “Perhaps…” she whispered, “perhaps he was copying m-m-m… Mama?” Myka could only reply with half a shrug and half a smile; she didn’t know. “I’ll go on with it then,” Christina said, half to herself, barely noticing Myka’s nod.

Myka waited until Helena’s breath was coming more evenly, until she could persuade herself that probably Christina would have things in hand from here, before she turned and ran.

She made it outside at least before she lost her dinner again, and cried herself to sleep under one of the apple trees, wondering if she’d ever feel the same way about their scent again.


	15. Chapter 15

Myka woke up surrounded by the softest fabric she’d ever woken up in, and on what was patently not the earth under an apple tree. She sat up quickly; the room she was in looked like nothing she’d ever seen before. Granted, yes, there were walls and a floor, and she was definitely in a bed of some description, but-

“Good morning,” a jaunty voice called out from the door, and a head with untidy hair poked around it. “You’re up, that’s good, that’s good.”

“Good morning, Doctor,” Myka gave back, stifling a yawn. “Did you-?” Her eyes toured the room once, asking her question for her.

“Yep, I brought you back to the TARDIS,” the alien in the blue suit said, stepping fully into the room. “More comfy, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Myka said, stretching. She blinked several times, marveling at how relaxed every single muscle felt despite having slept in her clothes. “Wow.”

The Doctor grinned at her. “Catkind makes these beds from Menoptera silk,” he said. “They’re fantastic, aren’t they?”

Myka nodded, slowly rolling herself off the bed. “I don’t suppose there’s an en-suite bathroom next door?” she asked. 

“No, but there are showers by the pool,” the Doctor replied. “And a little sink behind that corner,” he pointed, “if you want to brush your teeth first.”

Myka shook her head rapidly to clear her ears. “Say what?”

“A sink-,” the Doctor pointed again, but Myka shook her head. 

“No, no, no – before that. You said there’s-”

“Oh! Yes! Showers,” the Doctor repeated, “by the pool. Oh, and I don’t have any mirrors in the TARDIS anymore, long sto-”

“You have a pool.”

The Doctor looked right, left, straight at Myka again. “Yes.” He brightened up. “Oh! I bet you’re the kind of person who likes to work out to decompress, aren’t you. Well, there you go! Or would you rather go for a run? I’m sure I saw trainers in the wardrobe once, but I’m not certain I have your size.” He looked at Myka with his head tilted to the side. “Go on,” he added, “we won’t have our next planning session until later this afternoon, anyway.”

“Actually,” Myka said, feeling her body itch for exertion, “if we’re talking about de-stressing here, what I love best for that is fencing. Really gets out all the aggression,” she added. 

“Fencing! Oooo, I love fencing! Haven’t fenced in _ages_ ,” the Doctor enthused. 

“You? Fence?” Myka looked skeptical. 

“Learned from the best,” the Doctor replied.

“Have you,” Myka said, head tilted back in challenge. “Prove it.”

“Hah!” The Doctor exclaimed, clapping his hands. “Excellent! Let’s go.”

“Go? Where?” 

“The fencing gym, of course!”

“You. Have. A fencing gym.”

“Tell me, what part of ‘larger on the inside’ don’t you understand, Agent Bering? I thought you were smarter than that.”

Myka’s head came forward again, and she scowled hard at the Doctor. “Hey, I haven’t had my coffee yet, okay?” she hissed. “Also, once we’re there? I’ll mop the floor with you, Time Lord or no.”

“Hah! There she is; _that’s_ the fire that was missing! Allons-y, Myka Bering!”

“After I brush my teeth. Wouldn’t be a fair fight otherwise,” Myka grinned.

-_-_-

“The best, huh?” Myka taunted after having disarmed the Doctor for the second time. 

He frowned at his empty hands. “Well, that’s what _they_ told me!”

“Who did? Who taught you to try and defend yourself like that?” Myka watched the Doctor pick up his blunt epee.

“Richard the Lionheart, Cyrano de Bergerac, and Errol Flynn,” the Doctor grumped. 

“Well,” Myka rolled her eyes, “there you go, then.”

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Stage fighting! Centuries-old technique!” Myka exclaimed, gesturing wildly with her empty hand. “Jeez, even if… look, you’re Engl-, well, uh, connected to England, right? Know anything about soccer? At all?”

“Course I do,” the Doctor protested, hefting his epee. “Football, by the way. So, do you want to switch sports, then?”

“ _No_ ,” Myka said emphatically and rolled her eyes again. “But tell me, Doctor - the team that won, or will win, the World Cup in 1966 - do you think they’d stand any chance against even a middle-table 2000-something team?”

“Ohhhhh…” the Doctor’s eyes grew round. “Ohhhh, okay, okay, I understand. Yes, ah, no, you’re right.” He tossed his epee aside. “Hah!” he exclaimed, suddenly beaming again, “I have an idea!” From somewhere about his person, he procured a large… 

“A spoon.” Myka eyed him, trying to find out if he was serious.

“A spoon!” he shouted, presenting it dramatically. “Come on, it’s different! Unless you don’t think you’re up to the challenge?”

“Oh, you’re on,” Myka grinned, taking a step back and falling into en garde.

-_-_-

“Thank you, Doctor,” Myka said as, freshly showered and dressed in some more fresh clothes from the bottomless wardrobe, they were walking back towards the TARDIS console room. “That was… that was really helpful, you know.” She threw him a lopsided smile, hand curled around the locket in her pants’ back pocket, to make sure it was still there, still safe.

“Aww, that’s alright,” the Doctor said, then started massaging his left arm again. “Ooh, ouch. That really smarts,” he added with a surprised grin. 

“Sorry.”

“No, you don’t understand,” the Doctor said excitedly, “it’s great! I learned things today, that’s fantastic!” He beamed at her. “I should thank _you_ , Agent Bering.” He put his hand up in front of her shoulder, and they both stopped. Then the Doctor leaned forward and kissed Myka’s cheek. “Thank you, Myka Bering,” he said. 

Myka touched her cheek, frowning in confusion. “Wha- … what for?” she asked eventually, only to find that the Doctor was walking again. “Hey,” she called, jogging after him. “Doctor? What for?”

“Oh, just… just for being who you are,” he said, waving a hand. “People don’t do that nearly often enough; thank each other for being who they are, don’t you think?”

“I… uh, I guess?” Had an alien just kissed her cheek inside his space ship slash time machine? Had that really happened?

He grinned at her, opened the door to the console room with a flourish and waved her through before him. For the first time, Myka took the room in with a thought to how fascinating it was, how much potential it held. For the first time, she entertained the fantasy that it would be amazing to accompany the Doctor on his travels through time and space. Then she remembered a slim figure standing here, shrouded in blankets, and her flight of fancy crashed. She had a job to do. Setting her jaw, Myka Bering strode towards the TARDIS’ door.


	16. Chapter 16

“Okay, so,” Claudia began as they were all assembled around the table. “Mrs. Frederic gets us in, then joins you and Mr. Caturanga in the TARDIS.”

“Indeed, Miss Donovan,” Wolcott nodded. 

“Agent,” she told him sharply. 

Wolcott gulped. “Of course. Apologies, Agent Donovan.”

“-but Helena, I _beg_ you to reconsider-”

“Absolutely not, Caturanga,” Helena insisted, tone gentle, eyes dark. “I have… business with Mr. MacPherson. I will join the agents inside the Warehouse; next to you two,” she indicated her former mentor and her former partner, “and Mrs. Frederic, I know the place best of all of us. I daresay the general layout hasn’t changed too much in past four decades?”

“Not… not noticeably, but-” Caturanga broke off helplessly. “Helena, I took you out of there to ensure your safety. And I brought a map! Please, won’t you-”

“Mama, are you sure this is a good idea?” Christina spoke up, to Myka’s great relief - the point Christina was about to make (Myka was pretty sure which one it was going to be) needed to be made, but Myka hadn’t wanted to be the one to make it. “You’re still n-not quite fully recovered, and a relapse-”

“Oh nonsense, dear,” Helena said grimly. “I-”

“Actually, I think your daughter is right,” Artie said, wincing as he caught Helena’s glare. “I don’t doubt your motives, Miss Wells, but when we’re in there, we _cannot_ afford to rely on someone who might faint at any time.”

“Well,” Helena said, exhaling through her nose and glaring at Christina this time, “I didn’t know my state of health was common knowledge.” And with an equally sharp glower at Myka, she slumped back in her seat. “Fine. I suppose I’ll keep Wolcott, Caturanga and Mrs. Frederic company, then?” she said acerbically. “Or does the TARDIS object to that?”

“Nah, she’ll be fine. You’ll be fine,” the Doctor waved that last concern away, causing Helena to glare at him in turn. Myka almost laughed, but thought it wise to show prudence.

Claudia turned to address the group again. “Okay then, so Wolcott, Caturanga, and H.G., and Mrs. Frederic and the Doctor, will hop across London with the TARDIS and set off artifact alerts, to draw out as many agents as they can. The rest of us will go into the Warehouse and head towards the Chinese sector and start setting up traps and decoys.”

“I never would have thought I’d use a Nazi attack as an asset in an attack on the Warehouse,” Artie mumbled, shaking his head wildly. “Never. In my wildest dreams.” Christina looked supremely uncomfortable; it didn’t sit well with her that they had knowledge about an impending, severe bomb attack that they weren’t sharing with Downing Street. Helena had insisted they tell Christina about it, stating very clearly that she would not keep her daughter in the dark on such a detail. 

“So the Blitz begins, the force field comes down, MacHavishpherson gets the Shackle buzzes, comes out of his office to look at the Warehouse floor and?” Claudia’s eyebrows rose questioningly.

“Sees our fake fire in the Chinese sector that looks like a bomb has come through before the Shackle activated,” Myka replied automatically. “And knowing that there are several highly volatile art-of-war artifacts down there, hopefully makes his way over. Assuming he has any feeling of responsibility or self-preservation left.”

“On his way to the Chinese sector, he should pass through the Darlington Quarantine,” Artie continued. If he walks into it, good. It’ll dampen whatever artifacts he’s using for personal protection. If he doesn’t,” Artie’s finger stabbed at the ceiling, “we’ll have to either _make_ him go there or neutralize his protection in other ways.”

“I am positive he’s wearing the Corsican Vest,” Caturanga added, making Artie wince. “It reflects any-”

“Yeah, yeah, we know,” Artie interrupted him. “Anything else?”

“He might have Ned Lowe’s Prayer Censer on him, in which case-”

“-we’re fucked,” Claudia said darkly. “That thing is awful.”

“Not necessarily,” Caturanga went on, finger raised in a gesture very similar to Artie’s. “The Censer, or rather its smoke, is vulnerable to heat. And since you-”

“Dante’s Death Mask!” Claudia called out, snapping her fingers at him. “D’you guys have that?”

“If you would let me finish my sentences, young lady,” Caturanga said mildly, “you would find out that we are indeed in possession of Dante’s Death Mask.” He pointed towards the bag that he’d brought. “It currently resides in a wooden box in my bag, as a matter of fact.”

Claudia gulped harshly, although whether because of the reprimand or because of the idea of an artifact capable of producing the flames of hell around a person was sitting in a leather bag six feet away from her, Myka didn’t know.

“Rest assured that it is inside a container which, ahem, contains its effects,” Caturanga went on. “However, should the need arise to use it, the container’s front can be detached by the simple push of a button; I shall show you before you leave for the Warehouse.”

“O-okay,” Claudia stammered, still quite pale. 

“What if…” Myka said, thinking hard, “what if MacPherson has the Phoenix on him, though?”

“The Phoenix wasn’t snagged until 1975,” Artie said, “at least in our timeline.” He looked expectantly at Caturanga.

The old man shook his head. “I haven’t heard of an artifact of that name, Agent Nielsen,” he replied, and looked at Mrs. Frederic for confirmation. She, too, shook her head.

“Good,” Myka said firmly, “‘cause it would really suck if we burned MacPherson and he came back to life and then one of us died in his stead.”

“Indeed,” Caturanga breathed. “Oh, I also brought Rembrandt’s Frame, which will draw the viewer into the canvas if he looks at it without proper protection.”

“Proper protection meaning neutralizer goggles, so if MacPherson appears wearing those it won’t work, right?” Myka asked. 

“Correct,” Caturanga said. “If he does not wear anything like that, perchance you can use it to capture him.” He smiled. “That would probably be easiest,” he added with a smile, which turned into a frown as another thought hit him. “Although I really cannot say how we would proceed with him afterward, to get at the Remati Shackle.”

“He might also be carrying around Genghis Khan’s Mace,” Helena added. With an apologetic look at Wolcott, she added, “McShane did this to keep us from, ahem, using him for Tesla target practice.” Mrs. Frederic’s eyebrow came up just as sharply as Caturanga’s did. Wolcott blushed and hung his head. “It, ah, redirects Tesla bursts,” Helena elaborated, looking to the side and biting her lip. “It’s about this long,” she held her hands three feet apart, “studded with nails at the top, and has a small absorbing crystal on its tip.”

“Good to know,” Artie said and nodded at her. 

“Okay, great, so…,” Claudia cracked her knuckles, making Myka wince. “Tomorrow afternoon, we head out. Doctor, are you sure the TARDIS can get us to where we need to be?”

“It’s done so before,” the Doctor said firmly, “and it will again.” 

“So let’s assume we get MacPherson, or Havisham or whatever; let’s assume we get this done,” Myka said. “And then what? Are you going to transport us back to our time, just a couple days earlier, to save our friends and the Warehouse? Is our time even going to be the same after all we’ve done already, and, and all the things we’re planning to do? It can’t be, right? I mean the Warehouse shouldn’t even be here anymore, and it clearly is.”

“Good questions, Space Lord,” Claudia seconded. 

“Time Lord, Claudia,” the Doctor said, rolling his eyes ever so slightly. “It’s _Time_ Lord. And no; I won’t have to, if things go as planned.”

“As planned? Have we planned anything? I haven’t planned anything, have you planned something, Myka?”

“Nope,” Myka said. She didn’t feel quite as belligerent as Claudia did, but then she was looking at Helena Wells right now – granted, not _her_ Helena Wells, but that distinction had been blurring all day. And looking at this Helena Wells was definitely preferable to mourning her Hel- she broke off that thought. But Claudia didn’t have that luxury, did she? 

“Okay, look,” the Doctor said. “So we find your time-traveling MacPherson, take him out of Havisham, get Warehouse 12 back on track, right?” He nodded, waiting for them to join him. Claudia just rolled her eyes. “But what does that mean, back on track? Well, on track to the US, of course!” He looked at Mrs. Frederic. “That’s where it was supposed to go decades ago, that’s where it wants to go. Or rather, _this_ Warehouse wants to _end_ , and wants to rise anew in the US. It’s tired, and slightly cantankerous, and it can’t wait to stop and be reborn again. And the beautiful thing is, it won’t matter if this happens now instead of thirty, forty years ago; compared to the history of mankind, that’s barely a blink – compared to the history of the Warehouse, that’s barely a sneeze. It’ll be fine.”

“It might be fine moving, or, or being reborn,” Artie replied, “but what about later? What about-” he caught himself, “just before you picked me up?”

“Well, first things first,” the Doctor said. “And first we’ll have to build the time machine, won’t we? Repair that part of the fractured time loop. No time machine, no MacPherson in Havisham’s body, not good.” He shook his head theatrically, then looked at Helena. “We’re going to need you to write down instructions for its use, of course.” Next, he turned to the Caretaker. “I assume you have a way of storing them securely until it is time?” Both women nodded. “Excellent!” the Doctor beamed. 

“I am not certain I…” Helena hesitated, grinding her teeth slightly. “I made calculations, did a lot of research, but…” she broke off, looking to the side, at the table, anywhere but where Christina sat and looked at her mother. 

“I can help,” Claudia said immediately, “and so can Myka, right, Myka?” She smirked. “She’s got an extremely good memory, and she already used the time machine. And I was around when she did that.”

Helena’s head snapped around to look at the curly-haired agent. 

“I wish you hadn’t said that,” Myka sighed.

“You have?” Helena asked at the same time. “You really, truly used…” she swallowed. “It… it _worked_?”

Myka nodded. “With limitations, yes. You can’t really change anything much, you’re not there in person, but in someone else’s body, who won’t remember the time that you spent in their body, and that time is limited, too.”

Wolcott’s head came up sharply, and he exchanged a significant look with Christina. “How long?” he asked, leaning forward. “Agent Bering, how long?”

“Twenty two hours, nineteen minutes,” Myka replied.

Wolcott leaned back, breath leaving his body with a whoosh. 

“Oh, my…” Christina breathed. “Uncle Will, that’s…”

Wolcott turned to Helena, a weak smile playing around his lips. “You’ll succeed, Helena. You will build a time machine, and it will work, alright.”

“What… how-? But…” Suddenly, Helena gasped. “You used it?”

“Not I,” Wolcott replied immediately, and when Helena’s eyes turned inexorably, unbelievingly towards Christina, he quickly added, “nor Christina.”

Christina met her mother’s eyes with an expression between incredulity, relief, and utter longing. “You did, Mama,” she breathed. “I thought it was you, back then, and I’m sure of it n-now.”

“Back… back then?” Helena stammered. “When?!” 

“There were three times in m-my life,” Christina stated quietly, “when Uncle Will was there, but he wasn’t himself, and the n-next day, he didn’t remember anything that happened.” She smiled tentatively at her mother. “The first time was three weeks before m-my sixteenth birthday. I had just asked a boy to come and dance at the festivities, and he’d declined, stating that he was pursuing Annabelle Charlington,” Christina said with a scoff and a smirk and a shrug. “I was heartbroken, crying in m-my room, and Uncle Will came and held m-me – something he’d never done before, and wouldn’t do again for quite some time.” 

This time, when she smiled at Helena, it was clear and bright like a spring morning. “You soothed me, you tried to bake biscuits for me and failed, and that made me laugh, and we talked about so m-many affairs of the heart that even while we did so, I was extremely certain it was n-not Uncle Will I was talking to. When I asked him about it the next day, and I found out he didn’t remember a thing, I…” she broke off and blushed, casting her mother a sidelong glance under her lashes. “I thought it had been m-my m-m-mother, as an angel, inhabiting my dear uncle.”

“Well.” Helena smoothed her fingers over the fabric of her pants, and cleared her throat several times before repeating, “well.” Myka saw her blink rapidly several times, and found that her own eyes were brimming in sympathy. 

“The next time it happened, I was almost expecting it,” Christina continued, laughing softly. “I had wished so, so m-much, for my m-m-mother to be present at m-my wedding, that I wasn’t even surprised when ‘Uncle Will’ came and wanted to help m-me get dressed, quite upsetting my attendants until I put m-my foot down. He walked m-me down the aisle, all good and proper, and I had m-my doubts for a while, if this was really a recurrence of what had happened years ago. But then he turned up and asked for a dance.” 

Wolcott laughed, hanging his head sheepishly. “I never dance,” he added. 

“And with good reason,” Christina replied, casting him a quick grin. “Two left feet, and n-no idea what to do with them, outside of Kenpo.” She looked back at Helena again, her smile softening. “You grumbled, but you were determined to dance with m-me at m-my wedding. And dance we did.” The mischievous spark in her eyes returned as she went on, “later on, the pren-nuptial father-daughter talk went not quite as I had expected.” She relented when she saw Helena’s round and slightly wild eyes. “Helpful, though,” she elaborated. 

“Thank goodness,” Helena murmured, “I hesitate to think…” her voice drained off and she shook her head slightly, smiling at her fingers. Then she looked up and met her daughter’s eyes once more. “And the last time?”

It was Christina’s turn to look at her hands, now. Taking a deep breath, she said softly, “When I went into labor with m-my first-born.” Twisting her wedding band around her finger, she went on, “I was so afraid, and James, James senior, that is, was at training camp, and even though the m-midwife was friendly as well as helpful, she wasn’t m-my m-m-mother, and that was who I wanted.” She looked up and reached her hand out to Helena, who took it immediately. “And that was who I had. One hour in, Uncle Will kn-nocked on the door. The m-midwife insisted that labor was n-no place for a m-man, but,” Christina broke off and laughed, “I can be quite single-m-m-minded, and I certainly was that evening.” She squeezed Helena’s hand. “You were, too. Mrs. Gammage grumbled about n-newfangled flights of fancy, and what the world was coming to, but she did relent when she saw how much you being there helped m-me.” She squeezed once more, then let go, as if only now becoming aware of everyone else around the table. “And you did. You being with m-me was a godsend; at least that’s what I thought at the time.” She grinned. “I guess I kn-now better n-now. And I like this explanation far m-more than soppy ‘angel business.’”

Myka let out a slow breath. Using the time machine like this sounded far more balanced and healthy than using it the way her Helena had told her about, late one night in a hotel in Egypt. Myka was glad that this Helena had found a way, or would find a way, of making up for lost time beyond spending the rest of her life with her daughter and her family. Myka tried to console herself by telling herself that that was what she wanted for Helena, more than anything: to be reunited with her daughter, even if said daughter was nearing sixty, and Helena barely over thirty. Myka tried to console herself that when she returned to her present, she could think back on this Helena being happy, rather than her Helena being torn apart by heartache. She tried not to think too much about how she herself was being slowly torn apart by grieving one Helena while looking at another Helena every single day.


	17. Chapter 17

“We still don’t have that answer, Doctor,” Artie said after a while.

“But we do, don’t we,” Claudia pointed out. “We fight MacPherson, take the Warehouse away from him, H.G. builds her time machine and writes us a manual, gives it to Mrs. Frederic, the Warehouse moves to the US, Mrs. Frederic and the time machine and the manual come with it, MacPherson finds out about the time machine, figures out how to improve it, and comes back here.” She turned to the Doctor. “Does that about cover it all?” she asked.

The Doctor cleared his throat. “Well… well, as a matter of fact that was what I’ve been thinking, yes. Pretty much exactly, actually.”

“But…” Myka began, and swallowed when all eyes turned towards her. “But, what about the cases we solved with Helena’s help?” she asked. “We can’t write a guidebook for those, can we; I mean how would we even explain such a thing existing? ‘There’s going to be some cases in the future and here’s how you’ll solve them,’ author unknown?” She looked at Claudia, who quickly shook her head in mute agreement, and at Artie, who just as quickly looked away. 

“We don’t even know if things are going to develop that way,” he muttered. “We’ll just have to think on our feet. It’s what we do.”

“Artie, Helena saved your life in Moscow,” Myka reminded him, “she saved my life in Tamalpais, and Claudia’s, even more so. I mean, sure, I can jump out of the way of an upcoming car, but seriously, I wouldn’t have had the least idea what to do when Claudia fell into that vat, and that is _not_ something you can solve by quick thinking!”

“Seconded,” Claudia said quickly, “I don’t wanna volcano to death!”

“We don’t know it’s going to happen that way,” Artie repeated, more forcefully this time. “Think hard of what the alternative would be and if you really, _really_ want that.”

“What alternative? Artie, what d’you me-”

“Why, me going back into the bronze again, darling,” Helena told Claudia with a lopsided attempt at a smirk. “That way, you wouldn’t need a manual on the time machine, and I could still save all your lives.”

“Are you frakkin’ kidding me?!” Claudia shot back in her chair. “No way!” She shook her head wildly. “No friggin’ way! Uh-uh. Nope.”

“Helena, you can’t…” Myka began, but her voice withered when she met Helena’s eyes. “You’re not serious, are you?”

“I certainly hope it won’t come to it, dear,” Helena said, reluctance straining the corners of her smile. “I would quite like to enjoy having a family for a good long while.” Her smile grew truer, and fonder, when her eyes found Christina’s, Wolcott’s, and lastly Caturanga’s – who seemed to have dozed off, Myka noticed. 

“Holy time-turner, Batman,” Claudia grated. “This is so not okay.” Then she swallowed, straightened her shoulders and looked at Myka. “I guess we’re just gonna write that guidebook of yours after all.” She frowned deeply, then turned to the Doctor. “Moving on, then: next question,” she continued. “What’s going to happen to us?” She pointed at herself, Artie, and Myka. “I mean, are there suddenly going to be two of each of us in 2012, and we’ll just put it down to Warehouse weirdness? Or will we stay here and live out our lives and shed a happy tear when we hear that our grandparents were born as planned?” 

The Doctor looked back at her, the expression on his face so grave that Myka was pretty sure she knew what’d be coming. Regardless of what Pete thought or said, she _had_ a good grasp of science fiction concepts, even if she hadn’t seen as many movies as he or Claudia had – they hadn’t read as many books on the subject, that much was certain. 

“Neither,” the Doctor said. “As soon as the time loop is repaired, you’ll…” his face became gentle. “Look, I’m sorry,” he said as he saw Claudia’s eyes fill with tears. 

“But you… you said everybody’d live.” Claudia’s voice skipped an octave on the last word. 

“And you will,” he said with an earnest honesty that, for the first time since Myka had met him, indicated his age. “You will be born, and so will he,” he pointed to Artie, “and so will she,” and pointed to Myka. “And you’ll quite probably have much the same kinds of lives as you did before, but there will come a day when the Warehouse will not explode because of your guidebook and that, Claudia,” he leaned forward even more and took her hands in both of his, “that is when everybody will live.” He squeezed. “I promise. Okay?”

“Will we at least remember?” Myka asked, through the lump in her throat.

“You seriously want to remember all this?” Artie asked incredulously, waving his hand in a wide circle. She cast him a long look. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, looking away. “Sometimes I forget who I’m talking to. Myka Bering never forgets, not even when she could.”

“Me either,” Claudia said immediately. “I gotta remember to be mad at the Regents so that I can make some changes when I’m Careta- oops.” She shot Mrs. Frederic a furtive glance. “Forget that I said that, okay?” She turned towards the Doctor. “Can we even? I mean, how would that even work? We shouldn’t remember, right?”

The Doctor smiled at her. “Technically, you’re right.” He stretched out his arms and linked his fingers behind his head. “But I’m the Doctor. If you want to remember, we’ll make it so that you will. There’s gonna be a bit of a headache,” he gestured a bit, in a failed attempt to look reassuring, “maybe some hallucinations, but it’ll be alright.”

“Halluci- hang on a second,” Claudia said sharply. “How does that compute, Star Lord?”

“Please, Claudia, it’s _Time_ Lord,” the Doctor said in a strained voice. “Look, you can’t have those memories in your brains from the beginning, right? Being born with memories of the Warehouse exploding, and time travel – it would only be confusing. It would make you doubt your sanity.”

“Yeah, okay, I really don’t want any more of that,” Claudia muttered darkly.

“So what I’ll do instead,” the Doctor went on, shooting her a sympathetic glance before looking at Myka and Artie in turn, “is I’ll give you those memories at the same, well not time, but … er… instance they, ah…” he gave them an apologetic smile, “no longer have a home.”

Myka squinted. “So… you… okay, let’s say this whole business, from when you picked Artie up in Rome until the moment when the time machine is finished, or whatever, let’s say that takes, I don’t know, ten days and five hours. So you… you’ll take those ten days and five hours and… kinda add them to the original, uh, timeline, and…”

“And zap those memories into us at that moment?” Claudia asked. 

The Doctor weighed his head. “Yeeaahhh, pretty much,” he said at last. “It’s easier to explain in Gallifreyan,” he added. “English really isn’t made to deal with time travel narratives.”

“Well, make sure to put _that_ in the manual you’re giving Mrs. F,” Claudia told Helena, “I’d hate to explain-”

“You seem to forget I’m sitting right here, Agent Donovan,” the Caretaker said, and Claudia jumped. 

“No! I mean yes! I mean maybe! I mean no! I mean… it wouldn’t hurt, would it?” Claudia said quickly. “Just in case? A backup! Safety precautions! A failsafe!” She buried her head under her hands. “Ugh, just ignore me, okay?”

“I don’t think I will,” said the Caretaker and ignored Claudia’s answering groan. “As a matter of fact, agents, I _would_ greatly appreciate an account of your retrievals and other Warehouse business between your Agent Wells’ unbronzing and the attack on your Warehouse and its aftermath.” She nodded at Myka. “Agent Bering, if you and Agent Wells-”

“Am I an agent again, then?” Helena said, leaning forward. 

“You should be,” Wolcott said immediately. “At the very least, your name needs to be cleared and your records exonerated.”

“Consider it done, Mr. Wolcott,” Irene Frederic said, “and more, if I have any say in the matter.” She smiled slightly. “Which I do. According to the rules, of course, instating or reinstating an agent is a Regent decision,” she continued, smirk still hovering around her lips, “and considering what we are planning to do, I doubt I would get their approval. Nevertheless, pending our success, I would like to offer you, Miss Wells, the position of Warehouse agent again, if you’re willing.” She tilted her head. “We are going to need a number of new agents shortly, I’m sure.”

Helena fell back into her chair, mouth gaping slightly. “I… will have to think about it,” she said faintly. 

“Mama, you wouldn’t-” Christina began, but Helena’s raised hand stopped her. 

“I will think about it,” Helena repeated, a bit sharper this time. “With an open mind.”

Christina nodded, mollified. 

“Agent Nielsen,” Mrs. Frederic continued. “As Mr. Caturanga,” she looked fondly at where the old man was sitting, head tilted back, snoring gently, “has said, he’s brought, among a number of the more readily available and hopefully helpful artifacts, the most recent map of the Warehouse.” Artie’s head shot up, and Myka would have sworn she saw his fingers twitch greedily. “I suggest we convene around it now, and plan what we’ll do about your MacPherson.”


	18. Chapter 18

“This is it?” Claudia looked around herself in barely masked disappointment. “Warehouse 12’s back entrance is in a dingy little clothes store?” 

“This is London, Agent Donovan,” Mrs. Frederic snapped. “It is quite difficult to be circumspect in a city of eight-and-a-half million people. I imagine that precautions are a bit different in…” she left the sentence hanging.

“I’m not gonna fall for that one,” Claudia muttered. 

“Good,” the Caretaker said decisively. “And about time, too.”

“At least we can materialize the TARDIS in here,” the Doctor said as he stepped out of the blue wooden door and pulled it close behind him. “Much less conspicuous and a much smaller chance to show up on any surveillan- does the Warehouse have surveillance cameras? Have they even been invented yet? I do get confused sometimes.”

“As a matter of fact,” Caturanga began, “one such camera was installed only this summer, at the front entrance.” He looked annoyed for a moment. “The Germans are probably going to claim the invention,” he said, “but it was I who approached Fritz Mechau, brother of Emil Mechau, at the Olympic Games in Berlin, asking him if-,”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, alright with the lecture already,” Claudia interrupted him, “geez, you and Old Man Artie over there should band together in the Cap, Gown and Geezer Brigade or something.”

“Oh, Claudia,” the Doctor smiled, “never underestimate a Brigadier.”

“So,” Artie barked, “there is a surveillance camera at the front entrance of the Warehouse? Even better.” Under his breath, he muttered something about people falling asleep during planning meetings, then continued, “that’s going to make your task easier, isn’t it?” 

Caturanga either hadn’t heard Artie’s mutterings or wasn’t bothered by them, Myka thought. The old man smiled amiably as he opened his bag and took out an old dusty fur coat. 

“Dude,” Claudia breathed softly as the old man wrapped himself in it. “That’s Herakles’ Lion Skin, right? Awesome.”

“Indeed,” Caturanga was still smiling as he straightened up, but, Myka noticed, he was straightening up much further than he ever had before. He’d explained it yesterday, and seeing truly was believing: the Lion Skin gave the wearer unsurpassed strength and prowess, and, as Caturanga had chuckled, its downside was negligible for a man of his age: it would cause people to come to him and ask him to undertake tasks for which near-godly strength was needed. At ninety-six, he had argued, he would have a good excuse for denying them. It was almost a shame when the old man covered the Lion Skin in a wide overcoat to be more inconspicuous. 

“I believe I am as ready as I will ever be, Doctor, Agent Nielsen,” Caturanga said, and even his voice sounded stronger. “Mr. Wolcott and I will draw out as many agents as we can and lead them a merry chase all the way down to Whitechapel, if need be.”

“Excellent,” the Doctor said. “I’ll take you and Mister Wolcott closer to the front entrance in the TARDIS, and then Miss Wells and I will hop along London, distributing artifacts to create curiosities while the two of you pull some antics in front of that camera. I’ll be in Stepney Green to pick you up in no time, don’t you worry,” he added, flashing them a grin. “And then we’ll all come back here and stay nice and quiet until it’s over in there.” He pointed his thumb towards the back of the shop. “Mrs. Frederic, you _are_ sure that MacPherson doesn’t know about the rear entrance?” 

“Positive,” the Caretaker nodded. “This one was newly installed last winter; he still believes the rear entrance is the old one by the Docks.” 

She turned and led Artie, Myka, and Claudia towards the rear of the store, where she removed a long necklace from under her cardigan. A key dangled from it, which she used to unlock a compartment in the dusty set of wardrobes in the back room. Donning a set of neutralizer gloves that had been waiting within, she took out a small pair of pince-nez that were attached to an apparatus of ratchets and gears. She held them up to her eyes, careful not to let them touch her skin. Something behind the wall went ‘clonk.’

“Nils Lilequist’s Glasses,” she elaborated, “one of the fathers of iridology, the idea of diagnosing illnesses by looking at-”

“People’s irises,” Artie interrupted, snorting dismissively. “Pseudo-science at best, but I suppose they…” his words withered in the face of Mrs. Frederic’s stare. “Work for identifying someone?” he finished, his voice hopeful.

“Indeed,” Mrs. Frederic said as behind her, a door opened. She wordlessly handed them three pairs of goggles. “Be careful.”

-_-_-

“Callinicus’s Chlamys,” Artie hissed, his voice barely carrying over the roar of fire and the dull explosions of bombs outside, “I should have known!” He stood carefully back from the intersection that they had cornered MacPherson/Havisham in, taking care, as all three of them did, that his old colleague turned enemy turned time traveler didn’t see them too closely, or at all.

“Callifragi-whatnow?” Claudia retorted, rolling to escape a bolt of fire from da Vinci’s Gargoyle. She landed behind a large wooden crate, and glared at the Tesla Caturanga had given her. It had proven useless; Helena had been right about Genghis Khan’s Mace.

“A Chlamys,” Artie enunciated, ducking behind a shelf a few feet to the left. “Greek garment, worn, for example, by Callinicus, inventor of Greek fire. You let it trail on the ground; Greek fire springs up in its wake.”

“Fine!” Claudia replied. “Great! A wall of inextinguishable fire around him, and a Gargoyle on his shoulder that shoots fricking lasers at us whenever we get close! Great! Fantastic! Artie! What do we do?!” she hissed.

Artie’s eyes moved here and there, speaking of the frantic thought processes behind them “Alexsandr Loran’s Stirring Rod,” he whispered suddenly, clapping his hand to his head and taking out the map. “Should be in the Russian section!”

“How the holy hell is a Russian sex toy going to help with this?” Claudia demanded. 

“Stirring Rod,” Artie snapped back, “used for experiments to create a foam fire extinguisher! In! A! Lab! Claudia!” He jabbed his finger at the map. “Ah-ha! Stay put,” he whisper-shouted, “I’ll be back!”

“Still sounds like a sex toy to me,” Claudia muttered, loud enough for Myka to hear over the roar of the flames. 

“Come now, agents,” came a voice from the intersection. Its pitch was different, but the sneer of arrogance and superiority was the same. “At this point, you must be aware that you don’t stand a snowball’s chance here. There are at least three loyal agents in here with you and me. Why don’t you throw your weapons over here and come out with raised hands, and we’ll discuss the matter in a civilized way.” Another bomb explosion rattled the Warehouse roof, appropriately accentuating his words. Myka didn’t believe there was anyone else in the Warehouse except the three of them and MacPherson – Artie had used Robert Watson-Watt’s Glasses to make sure. But-

“Oh, you wanted civilized,” a voice called from the rafters, and there was a zzzip sound, followed by a stony, cracking thud. “You should have said. I do apologize.”

Myka knew that sound. Myka knew that voice. “Helena,” she hissed, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the top of the shelf. What on Earth was Helena doing here? She should be in the TARDIS, in safety. She shouldn’t be-

“She hit the Gargoyle with her grappler!” Claudia replied in a whisper, after a quick glance over her crate. “Awesome!”

“Miss Wells,” MacPherson/Havisham answered, still sounding cloyingly superior. “I heard about your unbronzing. I must say I was glad; we have unfinished business, you and I.”

“We do indeed,” grated Helena, sounding a bit preoccupied. Myka took a few steps back from the shelf and intersection, and managed to locate her at last. Helena was perched not atop a shelf, but next to one of the lamps in the Warehouse’s roof rafters, doing something smart, Myka hoped, with the electric cables running to and from it. Her grappler was tied to, or near, one of those cables; Myka couldn’t quite make out which. With one last, satisfied smirk, Helena attached a thin line to a large switch. “And we’re about to come to its conclusion,” she said and started to climb down the nearest strut, nimble as a cat. When she reached the Warehouse floor, she tugged at the line, the switch flipped, and a blinding arc of energy ran along the cable of her grappler.

“Suh-weet!” Claudia called out as something exploded that Myka couldn’t see. The lights in their section went out, leaving only the flames around MacPherson to illuminate their fight. “Gargoyle zero, H.G. Wells one!”

“Miss Donovan,” MacPherson said suddenly, “now _there’s_ a voice I hadn’t expected to hear. Apologies for taking so long to recognize it! Welcome to Warehouse 12, my dear!”

“Yikes!” Claudia grimaced at Myka. “Now what do we do?” she hissed. Myka put a finger on her lips and shook her head. 

“Are you here on your own, Miss Donovan?” MacPherson went on, “or did you bring your friends?” Judging by the sound of his voice, Myka thought, he was turning in a slow circle, trying to figure out how many more people were around. She motioned to Claudia that she’d move a few aisles over, to do exactly that – surround him, create a chance to get at him from behind. When she looked around, she saw that Helena had vanished. 

“The resourceful Miss Bering!” MacPherson called out, and for a second, Myka froze, thinking he’d seen her somehow. “Is she around?” Myka released her breath slowly and made her way towards an aisle two intersections north of him where, she judged, he wouldn’t see her crossing over the flames of his ring of fire, now that the lights were out. 

“Would you believe me if I told you she wasn’t?” Claudia called back, stuck behind her crate. 

“Not a word!” MacPherson said gleefully. “What an adventure. What an honor! You obviously did manage to build your time machine after all, Miss Wells – or you will!” From where she’d arrived at a shelf behind him, Myka saw him laugh. Surrounded by flames, and wrapped in the sound of yet more explosions of Nazi bombs, he looked the epitome of an evil mastermind. Pete would – jerking her thoughts to a halt, she took a deep breath. “Ah, the joys of tense when speaking about time travel,” MacPherson went on. “Much more challenging than you, I’m afraid.”

“Oh yeah?” Claudia shouted back, “seems to me you’re not going anywhere, boy-o!”

“Ah, but I don’t need to,” MacPherson purred. “At some point, the bombing shall cease, the Shackle shall deactivate, and the rest of my agents will come in here and overpower you. Alternately,” he continued, taking a sip from a water bottle that looked like a piece of safari equipment, “you shall run out of food and drink while I,” he raised the bottle in a toast, “shall not.” He smacked his lips appreciatively. “Either way, it appears I am coming out ahead, Miss Donovan.”

Myka saw a sudden movement to her left – Helena was sidling down the aisle towards her. “Keep him talking,” the English agent mouthed, gesturing towards MacPherson before taking a turn that would get her closer to him. Myka wasn’t too certain, but in the flames’ flickering light, Helena’s eyes seemed to dance with a hatred that Myka had last seen as they were standing atop a Caldera, Trident in her hands.

“Helena,” Myka hissed, reaching out and frowning hard. She shook her head in frustration when the other woman walked on without a backwards glance. “ _Damnit_ , Georgie!”

“Is your Mister Lattimer around as well?” MacPherson was going on two aisles over. “He is so entertaining, is he not? Miss Wells, don’t you agree?” 

Myka froze again, wondering if MacPherson had seen Helena after all. His body language hadn’t changed, though, and he was still slowly turning in a circle. There was no way that he could see anything beyond maybe ten feet outside of the circle of fire, Myka thought, the flames being in his way. The Gargoyle lay in pieces at his feet, she noticed through a brief gap in the flames, and he didn’t seem to carry any other visible weapons. He _was_ wearing the Corsican Vest, which sat uncomfortably snug around his boxy shoulders. She couldn’t see anything like a backpack or artifact bag, either, but that didn’t mean much, she knew; this was MacPherson, an insidious old spider, as Artie had called him. And where was Artie, anyway?

“Pete Lattimer is dead, James,” Artie spat, right on cue, from the aisle opposite Myka. “And so is Myka Bering.”

“Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry,” MacPherson said, sounding not sorry at all. “Something I did?” His hand touched his chest in mock concern. “Hello Arthur, old friend,” he continued. “It’s you and Miss Donovan, then?” He spun around suddenly, obviously trying to catch anyone trying to sneak up from Myka’s end of the aisle. She hastily snatched her head back. “And Miss Wells, of course?”

“Would you believe me if I said it was?” said Artie, echoing Claudia’s earlier words.

MacPherson barked a laugh. “Hah! Not a word. I can’t afford to, obviously. Arthur, I have to say, this is thrilling, finally, after all these years.”

“Boring, were they, Grumps?” Claudia shouted from behind her box. “Well, listen closely, as the song goes: not for very much longer, you fossil!” 

“How quaint,” MacPherson chuckled. “How cute, as you would say, Miss Donovan. A fossil, am I?” And he chucked a small red marble towards her crate, which exploded upon contact, multiplied into several dozen small fireballs which rolled to the left and right of the crate, blocking Claudia’s escape. 

“Claudia!” Artie shouted, and Myka had to clamp her hand over her mouth not to do the same. “You-” He shook his hands at MacPherson. “If you hurt her, I’ll-” tonelessly mouthing words, he began to advance on MacPherson, hands outstretched as though they were greedy for MacPherson’s neck. 

Claudia laughed behind her crate, and a flurry of snowflakes extinguished the fireballs. _She really does carry that snow globe everywhere,_ Myka thought. “Seriously?” she heard Claudia cackle. “That’s all you got?”

And while MacPherson’s attention was on Claudia’s crate, Artie raised a thin glass rod that looked like a fairy godmother’s wand, rather than a laboratory stirring rod, and shook it towards the ring of fire that still encircled MacPherson. A fountain of white foam shot out and put out about a third of the flames between Artie and his nemesis.

“Oh, Arthur,” MacPherson sighed and raised a lantern, shining its beam towards Artie, who stopped dead in his tracks. 

“Jack the Ripper’s Lantern,” Myka breathed to herself, glad that Mrs. Frederic had equipped them all with neutralizer goggles – unlike her parents two years ago, Artie would be able to shake off the Lantern’s effects in a moment. Myka set her jaw. She was the joker at the moment; the one factor MacPherson didn’t know about. ‘Keep him talking’, Helena had said, who apparently had a plan of her own, which made her another kind of joker in this game. And while, yes, Watson-Watt’s Glasses had shown Artie that no one else was in the Warehouse beside MacPherson and the three agents from the future, Helena had gotten in somehow, so other agents might, too – Myka needed to keep a look out for that possibility. She was the only one who could, or would – Artie and Claudia were tied down, and Helena obviously didn’t care.

“Ah, but you see, James,” Artie said and slowly stepped forwards, “Jack the Ripper’s Lantern doesn’t work when you’re wearing goggles.” He shook his head. “Rookie mistake, I’m afraid.” He took out a cylindrical, four-inch-long object from under his coat, and tossed towards his former colleague.

It bounced off MacPherson and rolled away when the old man didn’t make a move to catch it, almost but not quite into the Greek fire flames. “Really, Arthur,” he chided, putting the Lantern down and nudging the object with his foot. “Pliny the Elder’s Scroll? A feeble attempt.”

 _Pete would love this._ The thought shot through Myka before she could stop it, and in its wake, her heart cramped and ached. An artifact duel? He’d go on about it for the rest of forever. She pushed the thought aside, concentrating on trying to figure out what would happen next. Artie wasn’t carrying Caturanga’s bag anymore, so maybe she could try and circle around, find it, see what was still in there to bring to this duel?

And then, strolling down the aisle opposite Claudia’s crate was Helena G. Wells, inexorable as the tides. She carried a mass of brown, stringy fabric in her arms, and walked with a calm purpose on her face that looked more terrifying to Myka than any snarl could have. 

“Hello, my dear,” MacPherson turned and greeted her, and Myka thought she could hear a slight tremor in his voice. “It is good to see you up and about. You do understand, don’t you, that with the votes of all Regents in favor of your bronzing, I could hardly oppose it?” He tilted his head, and now Myka was certain that he was apprehensive, even though she couldn’t see his face anymore. 

“I’m dreadfully sorry about this,” MacPherson went on, trailing a wide white piece of cloth over the opening in the ring of fire so that it closed over the extinguishing foam, encircling him again. “Precautions are necessary at this point; you understand _that_ , don’t you?” And still, Helena walked towards him, eyes cold as Antarctica.

“I can see you’re anxious to greet me,” he said, bending down towards the Lantern, “but I really think I need you to stop right there.” He lifted the lantern and shone its light at Helena. Helena didn’t even falter as she continued her advance. 

“Whoops,” Claudia called out with yet another cackle, “didn’t expect that, did you, MacFuddyduddy?” The young agent sounded closer. _Good_ , Myka thought, _let’s put more pressure on him._

As Helena got closer to the fire’s edge, she shook out the fabric she’d been holding, and Myka saw something small and golden glitter under Helena’s vest. Myka recognized it – she liked doing inventory in the Classics sector; this was Aggripina’s Fibula, deemed ‘mostly harmless’ because it ‘only’ allowed the wearer to overcome any obstacle someone else might put in their way, especially when the wearer was concerned for the wellbeing of their child. Looking at Helena’s advance, Myka thought that a reassessment of the artifact’s harmlessness was absolutely in order; ‘implacable’ was the only word to describe Helena’s march towards MacPherson.

“As I said,” she heard Helena say in a low, dangerous voice, “you and I have unfinished business. And this,” she stepped through the fire unscathed, and, quick as a striking snake, threw the net she’d been holding across MacPherson, who’d been too stunned by the fact that the Greek fire hadn’t stopped her to give any thought to fighting her off, “should give us ample time to discuss it.”

“But…” MacPherson stammered as the net tightened around him, wrapping itself snug around his upper body and down to his knees. 

“Coleridge’s Fishing Net,” Artie breathed, rushing towards the two figures in the ring of flames. “But he’s wearing the Corsican Vest,” he added, and turned to Helena. “Why aren’t you twitching? The Vest should be transferring the electric impulses to you.”

“Oh, it does,” she said lightly, and then pointed at the Fibula under her vest. “But they can’t stop me. Pretty little thing,” she added vaguely, patting the fabric back into place over it. “I’m more concerned about catching this fish than being – oh, not even grilled, as a matter of fact. It barely tickles.” 

Myka crept forward, eyes fixed on the scene in front of her. Everyone but Artie was facing away from her now, allowing her to come closer than she’d been. If only Helena would think to remove Genghis Khan’s Mace from MacPherson, Myka could tesla him and they’d be done, wouldn’t they? 

“You wouldn’t do anything to harm me,” MacPherson/Havisham said, his nervous voice making the words sound more like a question than a statement. “We have an agreement, you and I – well, your future self, at any rate. She and I agreed that she would send me back here if I saved Christina’s life, and I did! I honored my part of the agreement!” He struggled as if he wanted to reach something in his clothes, but by then the Fishing Net had wound itself around him so tightly that he couldn’t move his arms far enough. 

“Honored?” Helena’s eyes flashed. “Honored! You might have saved my daughter from being murdered, but you were the one to tell me that she perished in a fire!” Her jaws worked furiously for a moment. “How on Earth do you propose that this counts as honoring our agreement?!”

“Your daughter Christina is alive and well, and I can prove it.” MacPherson struggled again, then grunted. “If you would release me, that is.”

Helena laughed in his face. Myka couldn’t see any weapons on her, but she knew that didn’t count for much – what with Kenpo and all, Helena was quite lethal in her own right. And from the look Myka had seen on her face earlier, killing MacPherson seemed to be a likely option. Myka couldn’t even blame Helena for that urge – she’d felt furious enough to kill him when he’d threatened her parents. But Helena had spent forty-eight years in bronze because of him – to think that he hadn’t told her that he’d saved Christina’s life, to think that he’d planned to use Helena’s daughter as a pawn in some power game? No, Myka thought, she couldn’t blame Helena at all – but their task was not to kill him; their task was to rid the Warehouse of him and bring him to justice. Myka thought she saw Helena hide a tremor in her laughter, and sneaked closer still, concerned for what effects the combination of unbronzing and the use of multiple artifacts at once might have on Helena.

“You’re bluffing on an empty hand, James. My daughter is better than you think, and nowhere near any cronies of yours. Did you not think I would have made sure of that before confronting you? You have, quite frankly, no bargaining chips and no power left, and that is so very… gratifying.” Helena glanced at a pocket watch. When she tucked it back into her vest, Myka saw her extend three fingers briefly – a sign? Meant for whom, though? Her? Helena had said to keep MacPherson talking – for three more minutes, was that it?

MacPherson shook Havisham’s head warily. “Women,” he sighed theatrically. “They will always turn on you.”

“Oh don’t make this about my sex, you imbecile,” Helena sneered. “You stand against everything the Warehouse strives for, and you are deluded if you think I’m in any way beholden to you or any agreement you might have made with my future self. Oh, and since we’re talking about that?” She laughed again, and this time Myka was certain she saw Helena’s knuckles whiten. “You deem yourself a mastermind, MacPherson, but your stupidity is appalling. You pride yourself on always being multiple steps ahead of everyone else, but tell me,” she stepped into his personal space, almost breathing down his cheek, “who is going to set up and monitor the time machine that your younger self will quite happily step into in seventy years?” She smiled with all the warmth of an iceberg. “I am.” 

Myka gasped when MacPherson lurched forward, apparently intent on shoving Helena into the Greek fire. Helena nimbly danced away from his attack, and he fell to the ground, barely avoiding the flames that greedily roared towards him. Myka’s thoughts raced for a different reason, though. _What does she mean, ‘I am’?! She-  
_  
Helena tutted, and Myka focused on her again. “You need to pay better attention,” she scolded. “The Corsican Vest won’t save you from self-inflicted wounds, you know.” She stepped gingerly over him and towards Artie. “You don’t happen to have neutralizing containers on you, Agent Nielsen?” she asked. “I think we should do away with the Chlamys and the Lantern, don’t you agree?”

“Absolutely,” Artie replied, “give me a minute.” He hurried back along the aisle he’d come down. 

“Hey, um, Agent Wells?” came Claudia’s voice from behind the crate. “Can I just say something?”

“Of course, Agent Donovan,” Helena replied gracefully. “Out with it.”

“Don’t get me wrong, okay?” Claudia began, “but, um, the monologuing? Molto dangerous-o. Can we just get the Mace off him, tesla him and be done with him instead?”

“Agent Donovan is quite right, James,” Helena purred, turning back to MacPherson and crouching down next to him. Despite her mostly-fluid movements, Myka could see that Helena was losing her poise, and wondered if the three minutes Helena had indicated were over anytime soon. “I shouldn’t give you a chance to turn the tables on me – again.” She took out her small personal Tesla and held it to MacPherson’s – well, Havisham’s forehead. “Ask yourself: what will happen,” she growled, “if I pull the trigger now? Ask yourself: will the current move to Genghis Khan’s Mace? Ask yourself: will it run across your body, or through it? And if so, where? And what harm will it wreak? Ask yourself: does Helena Wells care?” 

Myka was close enough now to see the sheer panic in Havisham’s eyes. Myka wasn’t bothering to hide anymore; her only concern was to get close enough to Helena to be able to help when whatever strength the other woman was putting in this pursuit of MacPherson would invariably run out – or to keep Helena from killing MacPherson outright. 

“Gloves! Containers!” Artie announced, hastening towards them. “Claudia, get them on and get the Lantern, I’ll get the Chlamys. Hurry!”

Helena had her pocket watch out again. A tired, satisfied smile crossed her face. “It is over, James MacPherson,” she breathed. On cue, and without her touching a hair on his body, Havisham’s head slumped to the ground.

Myka surged forward, barely in time to catch Helena as she fainted.


	19. Chapter 19

“Doctor, what the hell was she even doing in the Warehouse?” Myka yelled at the Time Lord over Helena’s prone body. “She should have been in the TARDIS! She should have been safe! She should have been _anywhere_ but climbing around Warehouse rafters and getting electrocuted by an artifact!” 

The Doctor finished running his sonic device over Helena’s body. “She’s fine, Agent Bering,” he stated firmly. “Sleeping, as a matter of fact.”

“Only by sheer luck!” Myka raged. “She could’ve-”

“Agent Bering,” Irene Frederic’s voice cut through Myka’s rant. “A moment, please.”

Myka took a deep breath, nostrils flaring, then, stabbing a finger in a last ‘this isn’t over’ gesture at the Doctor, followed the Caretaker along the aisle. Two shelves away, Mrs. Frederic turned around to Myka. 

“I appreciate your concern for your fellow agent,” the Caretaker said sternly. “I do not appreciate you placing blame on the Doctor’s shoulders. From when Agent Wells was first brought aboard the TARDIS, there were complications between that machine and her – you do remember that, don’t you.” Myka nodded mutely. She did remember that the TARDIS apparently ‘didn’t like’ Helena. “Once the three of you had engaged MacPherson,” Mrs. Frederic continued, “it got worse. Much worse. The Doctor had immense difficulty to steer the TARDIS reliably, so the three of us concluded it would be best to take Agent Wells to a safe location and continue without her. We _had_ to provide the means of escape for Mr. Wolcott and Mr. Caturanga, so we left Agent Wells in the clothing store – inside the force field, as it turned out. Apparently, it extends around the store. And apparently, the TARDIS can materialize in and out of it at will.” At that last statement, the Caretaker looked as though she had bitten a lemon.

Myka shook her head, barely refraining from rolling her eyes. “So you put her in that store and left her to her own devices? Of course she’d come after us!”

“Agent Bering!” the Caretaker said sharply. “The back entrance was _closed_. There should not have been any way for Helena Wells to unlock that doo-”

“Ah, but the Warehouse likes her,” Caturanga said, ambling towards the two women. “It always has. And you yourself, Irene, have said that it is sentient, have you not?”

“Are you saying the Warehouse will open its doors out of… of friendly feelings for an agent?” Mrs. Frederic’s voice sounded supremely irritated. 

“Would that be the strangest thing it has ever done?” Caturanga replied mildly. “Mr. Havisham, I am happy to say, is no longer possessed by James MacPherson. Unfortunately, he now faces the reality of having missed the better part of his life, but at least he is himself again.” The old man sighed slightly and then turned towards Myka with a small smile. “How did you thwart him in the end, may I ask?”

“We, um, didn’t?” Myka replied, rubbing the back of her neck. She hadn’t really paid attention after Helena had fainted, seeing as MacPherson – or Havisham, or whoever – had been tightly bound in Coleridge’s Fishing Net. “I mean, _I_ didn’t. Um, you better ask Ar-, I mean, Agent Nielsen, or Agent Donovan.”

“Actually, nobody did anything,” the Doctor called out, beaming, as he hurried towards them. He shook his sonic screwdriver. “No, whatever it was happened at the other end of the time loop.”

“Other end?” Myka asked. “You mean, the time machine?” Her eyes grew round as she remembered Helena’s words. “Oh. My God,” she whispered. “She messed with him. She messed with _it_. She messed with his plans!” She saw the Doctor nodding happily. “She must’ve… set the time machine to haul him back to Warehouse 13 at a specific time – but how would she kn-” her eyes grew even rounder, and the Doctor nodded even harder. 

“Isn’t it amazing?” he beamed. “Do you know how rare it is that a human understands the principles and possibilities of time travel to this degree?” Seeing Caturanga’s polite frown, the Doctor added, “she is going to build the time machine in a way that, even with MacPherson’s ‘improvements’,” _the Doctor actually uses finger quotes_ , Myka thought weakly, “it would work as _she_ planned, pulling MacPherson from _this_ present to the time machine in Warehouse 13 at precisely six o’clock in the evening on September 7, 1940. Local time, of course.” He clapped his hands and laughed in delight. “And Mrs. Frederic can now make sure that he’ll be met with a nice full complement of agents pointing Teslas at him in Warehouse 13.” He laughed again. “H.G. Wells, ladies and gentlemen! Oh, I could _kiss_ her!” He ran back towards where Helena was still lying on the ground.

Myka gaped for a moment, then caught herself and ran after him. “Don’t you-!” she started yelling, then caught herself again and lowered her voice. “Don’t you dare!” she hissed. “The only thing you’ll do is get her out of here and into a bed, d’you hear me?”

“I’ll carry her,” Caturanga offered from a few yards behind them. He pointed towards his chest. “I’m still wearing the Lion Skin; it’d be an honor and an act of friendship.”

“Okay, sure, fine,” the Doctor agreed. “Mrs. Frederic, can we-?” he threw his thumb over his shoulder towards the back entrance.

“Yes, yes, you can leave,” the Caretaker replied with a sigh, eyeing the soot-blackened shelves and artifacts with distaste. She made a shooing motion with one hand, already half-turned towards the crate Claudia had hidden behind, assessing the damage done to it. “I’ll call in the agents that I can still trust to clear up this mess.”


	20. Chapter 20

All told, it took more than a week to build the time machine, a flurry of exhilarating, exhausting, effervescent days in which they worked in the Warehouse during daylight hours and took the TARDIS home to Little Howle each night. The space ship slash time machine was much better behaved towards Helena now, which Myka took as a good sign. 

Myka was glad that the work relied as much on her and Claudia’s memories of _their_ H.G. Wells’ time machine as it did on _this_ H.G. Wells’ actual research and designs. It gave her something meaningful to do during daylight hours, and something work-related to think about when she couldn’t find sleep at night. 

She, Claudia, and Artie didn’t talk about what would happen once the machine was finished. Instead, after coming home from work, Artie and Claudia usually hung out together, doing God knew what, while Myka and Georgie worked on their other task: going over each case on which Myka’s Helena had lent a hand or helped in some other way, writing down the details so that Mrs. Frederic would be able to steer events to their required conclusion in the future.

Myka had asked Helena outright about what Helena had told MacPherson in the Warehouse – that _she_ would be the one to set up and monitor the time machine. Helena had laughed at that, explaining that she’d only wanted to rattle the man. She had no intention of going back into the Bronze, she’d said with a shudder that had made Myka breathe a little easier. Then Helena had made a note in the margins of their manual, to write down specific instructions for Mrs. Frederic on the use of the time machine – a different set than the instructions that future MacPherson was intended to find – and she and Myka had resumed work on the manual. 

It meant that they spent all of their evenings closeted in Georgie’s bedroom – only the two of them, since Mrs. Frederic and Caturanga were hard at work ‘weeding out’ Regents and agents, as Claudia called it, before relocating the Warehouse to the United States. Only the two of them, in close proximity for hours – Myka still couldn’t place this fact firmly in the “good” or “bad” category. 

It still hurt like hell to look at this Helena – Georgie – and see only kindness in her eyes – even though they’d warmed since that first night. It still hurt like hell to see Georgie bent over her notes (or bent over her time machine, for that matter), frowning in intense concentration or grinning smugly when she had worked something out. And yet it hurt like another hell, one just as hot, whenever Myka turned around to find Georgie _not_ where she’d expected her to be, at which point she’d unfailingly hear the sizzling of a force field coming down around her, and an apologetic whisper of ‘it was the only thing I could think of to save you.’

Early on, Myka had suggested – pleaded, almost – that she could just write everything down for Georgie by herself; color-coded, even. Georgie had simply looked at her, sighed, and argued that they didn’t know if anything that Myka made now would still exist after the time machine was finished and the time loop closed. Myka had grimaced and ceded the point, and now here they were, deep in discussion about events in an abandoned factory in Moscow.

“The Titanic?” Georgie asked. 

Myka snorted. “The largest ship afloat at the time. Purportedly unsinkable, a wonder of its time, a miracle of ingenuity and engineering, on its maiden journey from England to New York.”

“Let me guess,” Georgie said. Her eyebrow shot up, and with a completely deadpan voice, she continued, “It sank.”

Myka gave her a lopsided smile. “Yeah. Which, you know, does sound funny until you realize that…”

“People died,” Georgie sighed, instantly remorseful. “I apologize, Ophie. That joke was cheap and misplaced.”

“Well,” Myka murmured. “Especially since that artifact caused her to feel like she was drowning in ice-cold water.” 

“Oh.” Georgie swallowed. “Unfortunate indeed. I hope you were able to rectify the situation quickly?”

“Not as quickly as I liked, but yeah. Artie gave her the actual Plank to hold on to, and it worked, in a way. He seemed to warm a bit toward her that night, but I actually never told him that…” Myka broke off, heart beating heavily at the thought of her upcoming revelation. 

“Hm?” Georgie asked, looking up from her notes as Myka didn’t continue. 

“I, uh… She was still so cold – she… she no longer felt like drowning, but she was still cold, you know?” Georgie nodded mutely, and Myka went on, “so I, um… I offered to help, and we figured that the easiest and fastest way to get warm was to be under the same blanket. We thought my body heat would warm her up quickest.”

Georgie nodded slowly. “A hot bath would probably not have been welcomed.”

Myka grimaced again. “Yeah… I did suggest that. I hadn’t realized it wouldn’t be a good idea. She shuddered so hard I thought she’d drop the Plank.” She shrugged apologetically. “And that’s how we came to spend the night in the same bed – mostly clothed, all very proper. I mean really, going any further was the last thing on our minds that night.”

Georgie snorted softly, jotting down a few last remarks on her journal. “I do hope that she appreciated your friendship, Ophie,” she said finally.

“She… yeah, she did,” Myka said, fighting for breath once more. She would have thought this would get easier over time, but so far it hadn’t, and they’d still to talk about Egypt, and Yellowstone. Myka was not looking forward to that.

“Ophie, can I…” Georgie looked at Myka with her head tilted to one side, then closed her eyes for a moment. “I… I need to tell you something,” she said, and Myka was quite sure that it was not what Georgie had set out to say, or ask.

“Okay,” she said slowly. 

“I…” Georgie hesitated, and then the rest of her words came out in a rush, “if everything goes according to my plans, I think we will finish the time machine the day after tomorrow.” She gave Myka the smallest, briefest, most apologetic smile Myka had ever seen on her face in any incarnation. “I thought you should know.” Georgie fiddled with the ring on her hand, a habit Myka had observed frequently in the past week. “Because,” the older woman cleared her throat, “we’ve only covered the events of about a year, and there’s still at least one more year ahead of us if I remember correctly.”

“Oh. Um, yeah, there’s… there’s more. Yeah.” Myka squirmed, wondering how she should go about telling Georgie about the Janus Coin, and certain that Georgie’s stated reason wasn’t her main reason at all. She was sure Georgie had wanted to give Myka a heads-up that her… what? Death? Demise? Dissolving? Whatever it was, it was getting closer. Myka did and did not want to talk about it. She really, _really_ thought that talking about Egypt, even talking about the Janus Coin, would be infinitely easier than talking about how she felt about knowing she’d die in, if Georgie was right, two days’ time.

It turned out easier than she thought – talking about Egypt, that was. They stayed away from the ‘dying in two days’ part. 

“It’s… distinctly odd,” Georgie said quietly, “to hear how my counterpart reacted to Christina’s death and her inability to prevent it. I can very much understand how and why she took the path she did, and it’s all too easy to imagine myself going down the same road.” She shuddered intensely, causing Myka to shoot her a sharp, worried glance. “Don’t worry, Ophie,” Helena smiled, “This isn’t another – what’s the word? Episode. No, I was just… thinking.” Her eyes grew troubled again. “Now more than ever, I am glad that I had Wolcott and Caturanga to lean on,” she continued. “Their help and concern was immeasurable. I dread to think…” she fell silent. After a long moment, an idea seemed to come to her, and she looked up again, smiling at Myka. “That is why you made me promise to seek out help, is it not? It is not only about finding help with the physical aftereffects of bronzing, but also about how best to deal with the emotional aftermath of what happened before I went into it.” She tilted her head, her eyes too gentle, too understanding for Myka to meet them for long.

Myka dropped her gaze back to the rug once more, certain that Georgie could plainly see the guilt that had been eating at Myka ever since Helena had drawn a weapon on her in Egypt. _I should have seen it. I should have been a better friend, lover, partner, not just a better agent. I should have seen it._ “Yeah,” she said thickly. Rationally, she knew that one person alone, no matter how deep their love, couldn’t help someone who’d been where Helena had been at that time. Rationally, she knew that even if she had seen all of the darkness festering within Helena, it wouldn’t have been enough to prevent what had happened. Rationally, she knew that without Helena even acknowledging that she needed help, Myka could only ever have come so far in actually helping her. 

Not that the knowledge made much difference. Certainly not now.

And yes, Georgie didn’t seem to harbor the same darkness – Myka had certainly spent a lot of time looking for it to make sure. But how much was that even worth when she hadn’t seen it in Helena, either? Granted, Georgie had spent less time bronzed, maybe that counted for something. And she’d woken to finding alive the two people whose deaths she’d mourned, regardless of them being quite a bit older. That had to count for something too, didn’t it? Didn’t it? 

Regardless, Myka thought, knowing that Georgie had promised to seek out help was comforting. Myka hadn’t managed to save Helena from herself, but she could do all she could to help Georgie. A sudden thought hit her – future Myka would never know Georgie, would she. These weren’t just the last two days Ophie would have with Georgie. This was the final adventure of Bering and Wells. All puzzles solved, all days saved, past and future – the latter with the help of the manual of case details that Georgie and Ophie were working on. All loose ends tied up with a bow, and then Georgie could get on with her life, and future Myka would live hers free from any interference by meddlesome Victorians. 

Myka’s lips quirked in a pained grimace. Right now, the idea of a life without Helena, without the constant heartbreak, defeat, betrayal, seemed like the better choice. But her treacherous brain wouldn’t keep quiet about the few moments when things had been so… so right. 

Georgie seemed to realize Myka’s inner conflict and kept her silence. She didn’t even fidget, much less reach out to Myka, as Helena undoubtedly would have done, with yet another apology that Myka hadn’t ever wanted to hear. 

After a while, though, Helena cleared her throat, and Myka knew the reprieve was over. She looked up, only to encounter the most piercing stare anyone had ever subjected her to. “It must have been godawful for you to be thus betrayed, Ophie.” Georgie’s eyes grew soft and kind. “And yet… and yet here you are, about to tell me how, somehow, my counterpart was allowed to help you with more cases.” She frowned. “I must admit, I find it difficult to anticipate how she could have been permitted to work more cases, and, more to the point, why you would be willing to work on them with her.”

Myka took a deep breath, and told Georgie about running from the Warehouse and its - her - newfound family, about working in her parents’ bookstore, about helping Pete and Steve, about the Janus Coin and holographic Helena. About Emily Lake, Dickens the cat (towards whom Georgie showed about as much appreciation as Helena had), Walter Sykes, and a bomb that-

“Hang on,” Myka interrupted herself, realizing. “That bomb… that bomb is being created right… _right_ now! What if… what if we could stop it from being created in the first place, wouldn’t that…” she broke off, breathing deeply.

“Ah, but would it?” Georgie asked into the silence. “Two questions, Ophie, if I may – one, how would you prevent its creation? And two, if you succeeded in preventing it, don’t you think a person as obsessed with fighting and destroying the Warehouse as Walter Sykes would find a different artifact to use in its stead?”

“Yeah, you’re right about that,” Myka said slowly. “At least this way, we know what we’re up against, and have an idea of how to defuse it. Artie said something about Gandhi’s Dhoti, a cloth that, when you drape it over something, radiates absolute peace.”

“To neutralize the hatred that powers the bomb,” Georgie nodded, jotting down a quick side note, “a nicely poetic symmetry.” She grimaced. “I guess it was too much to hope that the future would see a betterment of human nature, not simply advances in the sciences.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Myka replied through a huff of air. Her Helena had said something similar, that night in Moscow, and Myka now told Georgie the same thing she’d told Helena then. “I do think that we’re further than we used to be, because all those advances in science that you mentioned have helped us understand why and how people do the things they do. And when you understand something, it’s harder to hate it or be afraid of it, you know?” 

Myka pointed out the window to where she knew London was, and behind it, the Continent. “Take this war, for example,” she went on. “Yes, it came way too quickly after ‘the war to end all wars’, but in a very real sense, this one will succeed where that one failed. Oh, there will still be wars; that won’t change,” they exchanged a sad smile, “but this war and the atrocities around it and all the things that happened in World War One to many people of the same generation – all of this will cause international institutions to be founded with the explicit intent to prevent wars on this scale. And they’ll succeed, at the very least up until my present.” Her lips curved into a semblance of a hopeful grin. “So that’s good, right?”

“And obviously, women’s rights will advance too – seeing as you are an agent, undisputed and with full authority,” Georgie pointed out, nodding. “Would you…” she looked at her hands quickly, trying to hide a blush, “Ophie, we spoke of so many work-related things, so many important, momentous things… do you think… would it be too personal if I asked… will you tell me about yourself?” Helena smirked slightly. “Seeing as you know so much about… well, a different version of me, but one still similar in many ways,” she added.

Myka was blushing too. “It… well… it’s pretty late,” she tried to deflect the question, and yawned as if on cue. “I… um, I mean, we got a couple more days, right? How about… d’you mind if…?”

“Oh, no, not at all, not at all!” Georgie said immediately, sitting back in her chair. At least, Myka thought, they’d found a second chair for Myka to sit in, so that she wouldn’t perch on the bed all the time – although the bed did beckon at this point, well past midnight as it was. “Out of curiosity, though,” Georgie added, as if in afterthought, as if her thoughts had gone to the same place as Myka’s had, “have you been sleeping at all well? I’m afraid it slipped my mind to enquire after your initial… visit in this room.” Myka’s eyebrows went up, and Georgie blushed again and looked away. “Forgive me,” she apologized immediately, “that was another rather personal question.”

“You know, I’ve actually been thinking that you’re remarkably different from the other Helena in that regard,” said Myka with a small smile. That Helena would certainly not have refrained from asking personal questions, would not have apologized, and never would have blushed. 

“Oh!” Georgie’s blush deepened slightly. “Well.” She cleared her throat. “Not for lack of wanting, I assure you,” she added dryly. “I simply thought that… given that you…” she broke off, obviously trying to find the right words to wrap her thoughts in. “Ophie, despite you not wearing black or other obvious outward signs, I know that you grieve,” she said finally, her voice slightly scratchy. 

Myka closed her eyes, throat suddenly constricted. “I’ve had better nights,” she said eventually in reply to Georgie’s original question. Again, true – since the night in the TARDIS, she hadn’t found much sleep, regardless of how much she worked during the day, or how exhausted she felt when her head hit the pillow. She knew that Claudia didn’t use the other bed in their shared room much, either.

“Neither have I,” Georgie said with a small quirk of her mouth that might have been a smile, might have been a frown. “The Doctor was quite right in his warning that for a while, my sleep cycle would be… ‘off kilter’ were the words he used, if I remember correctly. Irregular, I think he meant with it. Or possibly,” she said, tossing her head with a self-deprecating smirk, “it is my thoughts which keep me awake, roving this way and that without heed of my actual need for sleep.” She raised her eyebrow. “Such lack of discipline,” she added.

“God, yes,” Myka agreed immediately, “mine, too.” When Georgie’s second eyebrow joined the first, and the eyes beneath them turned undeniably wicked, Myka backtracked quickly. “I mean, about your time machine, and, and our cases, and… you know.”

“Oh. Yes.” Georgie’s eyes quickly and fully lost their suggestiveness, and then dropped to the rug. “I am dreadfully sorry, Ophie,” she breathed out. “Such flirtations are quite out of place. I hope you will forgive me.” She looked up again and leaned forward slightly, not quite holding her breath, but, Myka thought, nevertheless anxious about Myka’s reaction.

Myka wasn’t sure how she should react. She was sure, one hundred percent, that a flirtatious Helena was a Helena she couldn’t bear for one second. It hurt; of course it did. But it tingled, too, and that was so wrong it threatened to take Myka’s breath away. And yet she knew, one hundred percent, that flirtatious was second nature to Helena, any Helena apparently, and thus a normalcy that for this Helena, for Georgie, was a good thing. It’d be nice if it were directed at someone else, of course, but… Myka was the only one present that it could be applied to, wasn’t she? Apart from the Doctor or possibly Claudia, and neither seemed like better candidates to Myka at this point. Quite the contrary.

More to the point, Georgie didn’t know yet, and Myka had no idea if she ever would, that Myka and Helena had been lovers. That Myka had _enjoyed_ , oh so much, any and all such flirtations and more. _Hopefully_ didn’t know, Myka amended, not sure if Georgie was as adept at reading Myka as Helena had been. Because if she was, Myka was sure that Georgie must have picked up on things. Right? Or not? And in that case, were her flirtations quite as harmless as Georgie’s apology would make them seem? 

Honesty, Myka decided. After a week, it seemed appropriate. Besides, she was too tired for anything else. “Thank you for your apology,” she said. “I appreciate it, I really do.” She took a deep breath, “As for forgiving you…” and let it out slowly. “I’ll work on it, okay?” she finished, head tilted. “I… this really isn’t easy, Georgie, you know? I mean I… I can tell you apart, in a way, but…” she finally looked up at Georgie, eyes wide open and showing all the conflicting emotions inside of her, intent that Georgie should know, should realize what Myka was going through. 

Here was a Helena who would never have betrayed Myka, the Warehouse, all of humanity. Here was a Helena who didn’t have rage and pain lurking in every corner, every crack. Here was a Helena who laughed freely if not frequently, sharing jokes with her friend, her mentor, her _daughter_ , for crying out loud. And while this Helena, Georgie, had spent forty-eight years in bronze with nothing but grief and self-reproach for companions, she’d come out of it into the loving, _living_ arms of friends and family. Myka’s Helena had had more than a century to think about her countless, failed attempts to prevent her daughter’s murder, had had more than a century to have those images replay over and over in her mind, and had then been unbronzed not into the arms of family, but into those of a megalomaniac, evil, scheming ex-agent. 

Of course Myka couldn’t help thinking in the darkest hours of the night. Couldn’t help wishing, couldn’t help wanting. Couldn’t help imagining her Helena being this Helena and how different things would have been, how much happier, how much easier, how less filled with betrayal and defeat and heartbreak. She couldn’t even argue with herself that all of her Helena’s actions had brought her to the place where she could be with Myka, because one, how selfish was that, and two, Helena hadn’t even really been with Myka, not physically anyway, for half the time they’d had with one another. And still, Myka couldn’t help wanting, couldn’t help wishing, couldn’t help thinking that she was working in a place where miracles happened, and working alongside an alien with a time machine, on another time machine, with the woman she- Myka stopped that thought. She did not want to even attempt to put a word on how she felt for Georgie at this point.

She hung her head and closed her eyes, certain that Georgie had seen, hoping that Georgie would understand. 

Two hands touched hers at the same time as two teardrops escaped from Myka’s eyes. Myka didn’t even need to open her eyes to know that Georgie would be crouched in front of her. She hadn’t thought that Georgie would try to console her, didn’t even know if she wanted to be consoled by Georgie, by anyone. For once, though, Georgie didn’t say anything, didn’t make any attempt at words. She just pulled Myka to her feet, led her to the bed, made her sit down, and wrapped her in her arms. 

Myka’s thoughts ran wild for a moment, and she was totally ready to pull away, knew why she had to pull away, but for the life of her, her body wasn’t listening. _A friend,_ part of her thought; _this is just Georgie being a friend, and face it – you can use a friend right now._ And when Georgie finally, finally whispered words to the same effect, Myka let go, let herself sink into that friendly embrace, and let herself cry, sob, mourn the lover she’d lost in the arms of the friend she’d gained.


	21. Chapter 21

Disorientation filled Myka when she woke. She dimly remembered crying her heart out in Georgie’s arms, dimly remembered going to sleep being held and soothed. At some point in the night, they must have switched positions. Nightmare, Myka’s memory provided, Georgie had had a nightmare, and Myka had turned around to hold her. Georgie hadn’t even really woken up, Myka thought with a tired smile, had only snuggled further into Myka’s embrace and continued sleeping, much calmer than before. 

And in Myka’s arms she still was. She smelled the same, Myka suddenly realized. Georgie’s hands, tucked under Myka’s chin, smelled of tinkering and Warehouse, of pencil lead and brass and leather, and if she obviously wasn’t using the same shampoo or shower gel as Myka’s Helena had, the scent of her body, her hair… Myka had to leave; her heart was beating in her throat, her eyes threatened new tears. Helena barely stirred when Myka unwound herself from their embrace. 

Myka found a blank sheet of paper on Georgie’s desk, sat down, turned the desk light around so the illumination wouldn’t fall on the bed when she switched it on, and started to write. 

> Georgie,  
> I’m not good at goodbyes and Helena never was, either. I don’t know if you are – anyway, this isn’t goodbye. We still have all day today and tomorrow, right? I just

Myka’s pen hovered for a while. 

> wanted to let you know that I probably won’t be meeting your eyes much today or talk about anything other than work things. I’m not good at talking about emotions in general anyway and certainly not my own. And I just can’t today, and I hope that’s okay. I just wanted to tell you that it’s not your fault or anything; it’s just me being overwhelmed and clinging to what I can do without falling apart again.  
> I don’t know if you noticed, but Helena, my Helena, and me – we were

Myka consciously refrained from chewing on the pen; it wasn’t hers. Finally, she settled for

> lovers. You probably know already, seeing how I dissolved yesterday. And it doesn’t make things easier, exactly, because apparently I

Again, Myka’s hand hovered over the paper. What? Apparently she what? _C’mon, Bering, honesty._ Damn this; she wouldn’t even be here much longer, wouldn’t have the chance to say or write these things, communicate them in some way. And even if her memories became available to a future Myka Bering, that future Myka Bering wouldn’t have a future Helena Wells to tell them to. 

> feel drawn to you no matter which incarnation.

Myka wondered if this was enough – she didn’t love Georgie. How could she? She was mourning Helena. In some weird, tangled way, Georgie befriending her had helped – more than it had hurt, anyway. Oh, Myka had no doubt that given time, she would fall in love with Georgie. She also had no doubt that it was Good, capital-G Good, that they didn’t have that time, because she really didn’t have the slightest idea of how to even deal with this. 

> Lastly, I also wanted to thank you.

Myka stopped again, wondering if this was too dry, too little. 

> I appreciate your friendship, a lot.

She added. 

> I hope that you’ll find similar friendships in the years to come. This war isn’t going to last forever; I’m sure it’s not a problem telling you this much. And there are going to be many opportunities, I’m sure of that, for someone as intelligent, proficient, and creative as you are, to find ways of exploring your potential to the fullest, and to find people who support you in that endeavor.

_There’s no way I could ever tell her all of this to her face,_ Myka thought, grimacing at herself, and set pen to paper again. 

> I hope your life is going to be amazing. Thank you, again, so very much.  
> Yours,

_What,_ Myka thought. _Myka? Ophie?_ Finally, she settled for 

> Myka Ophelia Bering

because this was all of her, right on that page. Grateful, hurting, wishing Helena – Georgie – nothing but the best.

Then she picked up her boots and went to find a bathroom and some air. 

-_-_-

“Claud?” Myka called out when she saw her friend sitting on the low stone wall that separated the far side of the orchard from a meadow that belonged to another farmer. “Mind if I join you?” she asked, stepping up to that wall and resting her forearms on it when Claudia shook her head. Apple trees silent at their backs, they watched the sun rise behind a much more untamed version of woodland on the other side of the meadow. 

“You look like bad porridge warmed over,” Claudia said after a while. “Are you okay, My- Myka?”

Myka knew Claudia had been one moment away from calling her ‘Mykes,’ and was glad that Claudia had caught that before it happened. _Eyes on the prize_ , she told herself, _remember what we’re doing all this for._ She huffed out a breath that failed to be the laugh that she’d aimed for. “No,” she replied, and turned to look into Claudia’s eyes for the first time this morning. 

Claudia immediately swung her legs around one-eighty, sitting to face Myka, and opened her arms. Myka stepped forward and let herself be hugged again, not quite dissolving this time – not crying at all, in fact, because Claudia was. Not sobbing, not blowing snot bubbles as Myka had been, just a heart-wrenching, blank-faced stream of tears down her cheeks that must have been going on for quite a while.

“Anything I can do?” Myka asked her when, after a while, Claudia had withdrawn and found a tissue to wipe her face and blow her nose. 

Claudia lowered her tissue and stared at Myka, face still quite blank. “Anything _I_ can do for _you_?” she echoed, pointedly, and Myka sighed and shook her head. 

“Yeah, no…” She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Claudia replied, her breath steaming slightly in the morning chill. “Me too.” She turned to perch sideways on the wall, and pulled up her feet and hugged her knees. The sun had almost completely risen above the copse of trees by now, its light bathing everything in cool molten gold. “Pretty,” Claudia added, with a quirk of her mouth. Then she sighed and said, “I don’t wanna go.”

“Claud, hey – Claudia.” Myka put one hand on Claudia’s knee and shook it slightly. “We’re not going. Not like that. You know that, don’t you?” Claudia wouldn’t meet Myka’s eyes, staring stubbornly at where her fingers were picking at a bit of lichen. “We’re not going, or, or dying, or anything,” Myka went on, dropping her hand. “We’ll just… resurface, at some point, in our, um, future counterparts or something. We won’t even know that any time has passed. It’s like…” she paused, grasping for words, “like… a mix between bronzing and beaming, right?” She tilted her head, giving Claudia a hopeful look. 

“No!” Claudia shook her head wildly. “No, it’s not. It’s only our memories, not our bodies, probably not even our personality – it’s totally not the same! I mean, even if it was us? That would be just as bad, wouldn’t it? ‘Cause we’d be… replacing the people we were before, and… and that’s not okay, either. And…” she broke off, gritting her teeth and staring at the sunrise again. “I just wish…” she breathed. Swallowed. Dropped her forehead to her knees. “Future me – the me that my memories, or whatever, are going to land in,” she waved her hand, then dropped it to the patch of lichen again, picking blindly. “I wish she wouldn’t have to go through all that bullshit again, y’know?”

Myka nodded, shifting slightly so that Claudia could lean against her if she liked. Claudia didn’t, but she did shoot Myka a grateful look before burying her face in her knees again. 

“Totally agreed,” Myka said, taking over sunrise watch now that Claudia had forsaken it. “There’s a lot of things future me could do without, too.” The growing warmth of sunshine on the apple trees behind them was waking up the apple scent that had, until then, been blessedly absent. Myka gritted her teeth. “Like Helena saying that stupid thing about smelling apples just before she-” she broke off, biting the inside of her cheek. 

Claudia’s head came up from her knees. “She said what now?”

“I don’t know, Claud!” Myka exclaimed, dashing a furious hand across the sudden wetness on her cheeks. “She just stood there, calm as you fucking please, outside the fucking force field and next to a fucking bomb about to go off, and said she smelled apples, and, and, and fucking _smiled_ about it.” She shook her head, then ground her teeth together to stop any other sounds from coming out. Taking a deep breath, she shook her head again and said, “I don’t even know what she fucking meant by that.”

“It means the Warehouse likes you,” Claudia said, eyes as hollow as her voice. “Mrs. F told me a while ago.”

“Oh, it does, does it?” Myka hissed. “Well, the Warehouse sure has a peculiar way of showing it.” She looked off to the side for a breath, two breaths, then back at Claudia. “I’m sorry,” she added. “I shouldn’t be lashing out at you; you’ve got nothing to do with this.” She glowered at the peaceful apple trees, trees guilty of nothing else but basking in sunshine and smelling of bombs and explosions and stupid smiles. “If I never smell fucking apples again it’ll be too soon,” she murmured. 

“Well, in that case,” Claudia replied with a trace of her usual snark, “I hope that the Warehouse has other kinds of air fresheners around for you.”

“I don’t need the Warehouse to tell me that it likes me,” Myka grated. “I really, really don’t like it right now, so I don’t _want_ it to tell me that it likes me.” She saw the confusion and hurt in Claudia’s eyes and relented. “Hey…” she cast around, trying to find the right words for her friend. “Before I started at the Warehouse, things were… stable. You know? Not great, I mean hell no. But stable. Stable is a good thing for a while. At least stable doesn’t hurt.” 

Myka’s fingers picked a patch of lichen close to the one Claudia had been worrying earlier, and started picking it apart in a show of solidarity. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Claud, you’re my family, and I love you.” Her hand flicked over to Claudia’s hand for a moment, squeezed, returned to dismembering lichen. “I’d never wanna lose you, any of you.” She inhaled slowly through her teeth, hoping that if she didn’t breathe in too deep, she wouldn’t smell the apples slowly losing their night chill behind them. “But that’s just it, you know? You get close to people, you lose them, it fucking hurts.” 

“Dude, I _know_ ,” Claudia told her knees indistinctly. 

“I know you do,” Myka nodded. “We all hurt. We hurt so much. And it really does make me think. If we, if _I_ hadn’t gotten into this Warehouse business, if I’d have just sent Mrs. F packing with her offer of endless goddamn wonder…”

She saw Claudia’s shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. “Well I for one am glad you didn’t,” Claudia reassured her knees. Her head came up, and Myka frowned at the conflict she saw in Claudia’s eyes. “That’s selfish of me, though, isn’t it?”

Myka attempted a smile, knew she wouldn’t manage more than a grimace, but tried nonetheless. “Y’know, I think in some ways love is both the most selfish and the most unselfish thing at the same time.” Her second attempt at a smile rang a bit truer. “I get where you’re coming from, though,” she told her friend, “I feel the same way.” 

Claudia closed her eyes and leaned her head against Myka’s shoulder for a while. When she straightened up again, her face held a different expression – anxiousness. “Do you know how Artie’s holding up?” she asked Myka.

Myka sighed. “No idea,” she admitted. “He isn’t talking to me; I thought he’d be talking to you, at least.”

“Nope.” Claudia grimaced. “No talk has been forthcoming.”

“Great,” Myka replied, pursing her lips. “Sure, I know it’s his way of coping, but I’d’ve thought…” She shrugged helplessly. “I’d’ve thought this would be different?” she finished.

“Oh, I didn’t,” Claudia said grimly. She shook her head. “Same old, same old,” she added, “things hit too close to home, he clams up. And frankly,” she sighed, “I couldn’t deal with him talking to me about this. Not right now.”

“I know,” Myka told her, “and that’s totally okay, Claud.” She squeezed Claudia’s shoulder for a moment. “All of us can only do so much, and that’s okay.”

Claudia huffed. “Yeah. I mean, look at you; cursing and stuff.” Her shoulder nudged Myka’s arm. “Seriously though, ‘bronzing and beaming’?” she asked, her laugh a shaky attempt at returning to some kind of normal. “Nice try, Myka, but no cigar. We’re not even close to having a Scotty around to work some kind of miracle.” She tilted her head. “Well, except the Doctor, I guess. And I guess he _is_ working some kind of,” she laughed again, more steadily, “timey-wimey miracle. Just not the kind we want.” Claudia grew serious again, and found another spot of stone to dig her fingernails into. “I guess … I’m kinda glad that he stopped Artie,” she said quietly. “That Astrolabe Evil sounds bad. And it wouldn’t have gotten Steve back, so…” her face darkened for a second, then cleared again. “I guess _this_ batch of shitfuckery is a bit better than _that_ batch would’ve been.”

“Oh god, I hope so,” Myka murmured. The sun was truly up above the forest, the meadow, and the orchard now – Myka glanced at her watch. “We should go,” she said with a sigh. “Important shitfuckery awaits.”

“Amen, sister,” Claudia sighed, too, hopping down from the wall. “Hey?” she called out when Myka turned and started walking.

Myka stopped and turned around to Claudia. “Yes?”

“I…” the redhead blushed. “I love you too, you know.” The words came out quickly, in one single breath. 

Myka smiled a lopsided, but true smile back at her friend. “Course I know, Claud.” She wrapped her arm around Claudia’s shoulder, and together they walked back to the house.


	22. Chapter 22

It was inevitable that Myka’s feet would take her to Georgie’s room once more on this last night. When Georgie had looked up from her time machine earlier that day, with a big, almost wild grin on her face, Myka had known that the job was done. Her heart had lurched weirdly, and she’d wondered if this was how it would happen – suddenly, no warning, no preparation. No goodbyes. Then Georgie had held aloft a cable ending in some form of connector, had tilted an eyebrow at them all, and Myka knew they weren’t quite done yet. 

“I say we call it a day,” the Doctor had said then, and Myka had wanted to strangle him, had wanted to protest, had wanted to grab that goddamn connector out of Georgie’s hands and ram it into whichever outlet presented itself. 

Could she not finally be done?

Instead they had all trooped to the TARDIS, made their way back to Herefordshire, and even had tea. And now here Myka was, lurking in Georgie’s doorway, afraid to knock on a half-open door of someone who was, chances were, expecting her to turn up anyway. Or possibly not – true to her written word, Myka had avoided Georgie as much as possible over the course of the day and had busied herself anywhere that was away from Georgie’s pondering eyes. 

Myka’s question was answered when the door opened fully and Georgie made to step through it, apparently on her way out even though she was already in her nightshirt. 

“Oh! Ophie!” Georgie stopped in her tracks and smiled. “Now that is fortuitous,” she went on, “I was just coming to find you.”

Myka raised her eyebrows wordlessly, letting her face ask the question for her. 

Georgie blushed. “I… I wanted to thank you,” she said, in a more subdued tone. “For your letter.” She stepped back into her room, gestured for Myka to come and follow her in. “Please, would you… would you sit with me? For a while?”

 _This is my last night on Earth,_ Myka thought. _There’s nowhere else I’d rather be_ , she suddenly realized.

She sat.

Georgie resumed her seat in front of her desk, turning her chair around so she could face Myka. “You have done so much for me,” she began, and held up a hand when Myka laughed weakly. “Ophie, no, please hear me out,” she pleaded. 

“No,” Myka pressed out roughly. “For once, _please_ , just… just don’t say anything, okay?” She breathed deeply, fighting against the urge to get up and leave. Georgie must have sensed it, because she leaned back in her chair, attentive, listening, but no longer intent on saying anything. “I mean, you’re not wrong,” Myka said, fighting to get the words out from between clenched teeth. She laughed a bitter laugh, and stopped as soon as she saw Georgie flinch. “Hey, no, I’m sorry,” she said, “that wasn’t about you, okay.” 

Georgie nodded and relaxed slightly, still listening. 

“Georgie, I…” Myka broke off, exhaled sharply, rubbed her hand across her forehead, ran it through her hair until it came to rest at the nape of her neck. “Don’t get me wrong, okay? I… I don’t want you to thank me right now. Or… or talk about what I’ve done for you. I know what I did and why I did it, and I couldn’t _not_ have done it, you know?” She looked at the ceiling for a moment. “I’ve always, _always_ tried to do the right thing,” she said finally. Her mouth quirked into a small, bitter smile. “I’m… I’m _done_ with that. Done with the world demanding things, done with people expecting things. Done listening. Done appeasing. I just…” she broke off again, shaking her head. “I just want to _be_ , okay? For as long-” her voice broke, and she coughed thickly, swallowing the sob that threatened. “For as long as I can, I just want to… to be. If you… if you can handle that, then I’d like to be here,” she added, looking at Georgie intently. “If not, I’ll… I’ll just… go and… and be somewhere else,” she finished, her gaze dropping to the loose thread in the rug once more. 

Georgie leaned forward, causing Myka’s eyes to come up again. Hazel met brown, deep, leaden weariness met warm, serious concern. “Whatever I can do, I will,” Georgie said slowly, deliberately. 

Myka took a deep, shuddering breath, suddenly at a loss. “I just…” she said, gesturing vaguely. Her hand dropped to the blanket she was sitting on, stroking it with the flat of her palm. “I…” There had to be something to this room that was making it hard to breathe, Myka thought. “I don’t even know,” she finished in a high-pitched whisper. _In through the mouth_ – she was trying, she really was, and suddenly Helena was seated next to her, hand on Myka’s back, stroking up as Myka took breath, stroking down as Myka exhaled.

Myka’s eyes shuddered close, and for a while, nothing existed but the slow, steady strokes on her back that was Helena’s hand and the soft brush of air on her cheek that was Helena’s breath, synching with hers. In through the nose, hand moving up, air tickling cool; out through the mouth, hand moving down, air tickling warm. 

As breathing became easier, Myka noticed that her hand, the flat of her palm, was still brushing against something – something that was softer than the blanket, and of a different texture. The back of Helena’s hand, she realized, wondering how that had happened, not wasting a thought on stopping it. 

Breathing became easier still when Myka turned around and found, inches from her face, Helena looking back at her, eyes dark, lips slightly opened. Myka noticed that Helena’s breath seemed short suddenly, stumbling, hitching, and knew there had to be a solution somewhere, some… some _thing_ she could do that would allow both of them to breathe easily again.

When her lips met Helena’s, an electric current ran through Myka, kicking all her senses into acute action – Helena’s hand under hers, suddenly twitching. Helena’s breath on her cheek, suddenly rushing. Helena’s soft gasping moan, barely escaping. Myka’s thoughts, part of them anyway, tried to make themselves heard, tried to tell her that this was a Bad Idea. They were shouted down, outvoted, and overruled. _Just this once,_ Myka thought as she lost herself in a kiss that burned her senses and broke her heart, _please, just this once, just let me be._

-_-_-

Seven or eight hours later – Myka wasn’t sure – Helena finally lost her fight against sleep. Myka looked at her for a while, unable to tear her eyes away, unable to tell where ‘familiar’ ended and ‘different’ began. When she was certain that Helena was sleeping deeply enough, she pulled herself away and found her clothes where they both had tossed them; found a familiar weight in her pants pocket, took out the locket and looked at it with a smile halfway between rueful and smitten. 

She had never seen Georgie wear it, or anything like it. Myka had wondered if Georgie hadn’t seen a need to wear it anymore, now that she was reunited with her Christina. She could have been wearing it under the masses of cloth Caturanga had wrapped her in after he debronzed her. Or maybe Georgie had simply never had a locket at all, different as she was in so many aspects from Helena. Whatever the cause was, Myka didn’t want to have the locket with her when… when whatever would happen to her, happened. So when Myka dressed and slipped out of the room, she left the locket and a small explanatory note on the desk for Helena to find. Dawn was barely a notion on the eastern horizon as she made her way to the TARDIS, knocked, and entered. 

The Doctor looked at her, calm, sad understanding in his eyes. So did Artie and Claudia. Myka wondered, for a moment, how they’d all come to be here when nobody had talked about how they would spend today, how ‘it’ would happen, whatever ‘it’ turned out to be. She guessed that like her, Artie and Claudia hadn’t wanted to be in Warehouse 12 when it happened, nor in Christina’s house. Which left the orchard and the TARDIS – and Myka, for one, had enough of apple trees to last her a lifetime. She laughed silently and shook her head at herself. Lifetime. Hours, if that. Hele- _Georgie_ would plug in the connector, power up the time machine, and that was it, right? How long could that take? 

“I’m going to take everyone to London once they’re up,” the Doctor said as if reading Myka’s thoughts, “then I’ll return here and pick you up. Don’t worry,” he didn’t smile, “I’ve got something in mind for you that I’m sure you’ll like.”

The three agents nodded. “We’ll be waiting for you here,” Artie grumbled hoarsely. Surprised by how weary he sounded, Myka looked more closely at him and saw large, dark smudges under his eyes. Claudia, Myka thought, looked marginally better until Myka met the younger woman’s eyes and had to look away. She held out one hand silently, and Claudia rushed forward and buried herself in Myka’s arms, shaking like a leaf. 

Myka let Artie shepherd the two of them out of the TARDIS and into the closest greenhouse. She heard steps outside, subdued voices, the TARDIS disappearing, the TARDIS reappearing. She tugged at Claudia’s shoulder, let Artie lead the two of them into the TARDIS again, sat Claudia and herself down on the ramp that led up to the console, never once letting go of her friend.

The journey was brief. The Doctor flipped the parking brake, squeezed past Myka and Claudia, opened both sides of the door, and stepped back. 

Planet Earth shone outside the TARDIS’ doors, slowly turning in front of a backdrop of a billion, billion stars. Myka got up almost against her own volition, barely listening to the Doctor’s murmured explanations for why the vacuum of space wasn’t sucking them out of his time machine. Her motions jerky and stiff, Myka sat down in the doorway, legs dangling, looking down on a planet bereft of satellites, orbital debris and other signs of the space age. She wasn’t afraid of falling, although she half expected to. It was bound to happen soon, and if it happened while she was sitting or while she was falling, it wouldn’t make a difference, would it?

A moment later, Claudia plunked down beside her, snuggling into Myka’s side. Myka’s arm came up around Claudia’s shoulders again, holding the young woman close. _Here_ was the difference; here was the reason to be glad she wasn’t falling. A few huffs and puffs indicated that Artie was sitting down behind them, squeezing his upper body into the gap between Claudia and the doorframe. Claudia’s hand found his and squeezed until her knuckles were white. Artie’s other hand patted Claudia’s knee awkwardly, and Myka’s free hand wrapped around Claudia’s cheek. She felt wetness, and softly kissed the crown of Claudia’s head, bemusedly noticing how the latest streak of colored dye had grown out about half an inch. 

Earth, silently and slowly spinning in its endless dance, was the last thing she saw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Were you hoping that this would be avoided?
> 
> Have you read some of my stuff before? ;)
> 
> No, the Doctor was right when he told Claudia what would happen. 
> 
> And yes, I enjoy stomping on people's hearts.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, everyone!
> 
> This is more of a postscript than a full chapter, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway.

January 3rd, 1941  
My dearest Mama, 

You have barely left, and already I yearn for you again. I don’t think I will ever stop. Could anyone have had their mother for a shorter period of time and in more heart-wrenching circumstances than the two of us? I doubt it. And yet, I tell myself in Uncle Will’s voice, I must show fortitude, and I do consider myself lucky I had as much of you as fate gave me these past few months. 

Uncle Will – you called him ‘Wooly’, that first morning, and he laughed when you did, but I have never heard anyone call him by this name. When I asked him about it later that day, he told me it was a name unique to your work, a name that had sunk into oblivion when he had to stop working at the Warehouse to take care of me instead. To think what he gave up to live in the countryside with me, peddling apples! During all that time, he was only ever Uncle Will to me, and I should very much like to tell you the following: 

He was the best replacement father that a girl could have. 

He never once shirked from his task, not once in all the years. Other men might have hired a nanny or governess, I suppose, but he only hired someone to cook our meals and took on the job of caring for me with great fortitude of his own. 

I was too young at the time to understand how he must have grieved. When I understood that the mother I did not remember would not return to me, I – well, I did not grieve, because I did not understand for whom. But I did feel very, very lonely. We felt lonely together, he and I. But he would tell me of you and answer almost every question I had about you – except when they led too close to the secret of the Warehouse. I’m sure it hurt him, but he did it nevertheless.

Much later, when I was a grown woman, I asked him how he had managed to raise me as well as he did – no false pride: I certainly was and am appreciative of the outcome – and he confided in me that he would often ask himself what you would have done in his stead. 

If that resulted in a somewhat unorthodox childhood and a somewhat unorthodox Christina Wells, I’m sure I don’t mind and neither does he. 

And when, in due time, I myself became a mother, I found myself asking ‘what would Uncle Will do?’, or I’d simply ask him outright. And if I wondered what would Mama have done and indulged my impulse to ask Uncle Will, he would, as always, answer my questions with honesty, patience and affection. 

Looking back on what I would most wish my children to think of me, I can only think of two things – that they feel loved, and that they feel that I have done right by them to the best of my abilities. 

I have, for the longest time, only known you through what Uncle Will told me. He told me so much of you that I felt I knew you despite my lost memories, and when I finally did meet you, your actions corroborated his words in every aspect. 

I have always felt loved, Mama, and I have always felt that you, and he, did right by me. 

I want you to know this, because I’m not sure you do, and I never figured out how to tell you. Or Uncle Will, for that matter. Him, I can tell tomorrow. You? Well.

I don’t mind you leaving. I told you this in person, back in September, and I would like to remind you of that, here in ink on paper, in a letter that, hopefully, you will read in the future you envisioned for yourself. I don’t begrudge you the chance to see that future, and I cannot fault you for feeling out of place in the present. I know you have tried; we all have tried very hard to make our place, our family be home for you, and I’m sorry we weren’t more successful. 

But you were right; I have grown and led a full life (and here’s to hoping there’s more of that to come!) I have made a life and a place for myself. It might even be true, as you said, that I no longer need a mother that I never had. It made me incredibly sad when you said that, Mama, and ‘not needing’ hardly means ‘not wanting’. But I can also see how that would make no difference in how you felt.

You are going to London this morning, back to the Warehouse, back to the Bronze. I cannot imagine spending a day suspended like that, much less seventy years! I try to take solace in what you told me; that you go into it in a very different mood than the time before. I hope it will help, oh Mama, I truly do.

I’m not happy that you decided to have yourself bronzed again, but I understand why you did, and I hope things will turn out the way you planned them. I have great confidence in your planning, Mama, but I’m far less sure where life and fate are concerned. I wish you the best of luck.

I know that these words will only reach you when I’m long gone. And I know already today that I will think of you, and the lamentably brief time we had together, every single day of the rest of my life. 

I thank you, for all that you have given me – my life, your love, my love for finding things out for myself, for applying reason and science to the problems I encounter. Yes, Uncle Will had a hand or two in that, but you planted all those seeds, and he never claimed otherwise. I am grateful also, and will ever be, for all the days that you were at my side, no matter the awkwardness we felt at times. 

I console myself that there are children right this minute who will never know their mother, and I consider myself lucky that I have, and will have forever, more than just stories of a mother I never knew. I have memories, and I cherish them and thank you for them.

I shall make more memories and make new ones for you. I shall write more and take more photos and collect them all to be sent towards the future in a little mundane time machine called a postal envelope to ‘someplace, South Dakota, United States of America.’ Irene will surely help. 

And I will love you, forever and forever.

Your daughter,

Christina


End file.
